An unexpected life
by capricorn5
Summary: When John and Mary marry each other, an empty space is left to be filled in 221B Baker Street. As she is also looking for a new place to live, is Molly Hooper, the lovely pathologist, who is going to take John's place and, who knows, Sherlock's heart. Mostly romance, but with some crime to investigate on the way, just to shake things up a bit. Now with an epilogue: 'Outliving.'
1. Chapter 1

The stars were shinning in the dark night sky. Millions of them, some of which were long gone, forming constellations. The music from a band was playing, filling the air with sweet summer sounds. It was a quiet and warm evening. And around the lamps that hanged from the roof of the tent were moths that flew against the hot glass.

Sherlock observed John, dancing cheek to cheek with Mary, the woman he had just wed. They have had a tough time, the two of them. Mary got pregnant and they were radiating with happiness, but she lost the baby and that had been quite an upsetting matter for both. Still, together, they had moved on, they had rebuilt all that was torn apart. John had asked Mary to marry him right after and had informed Sherlock that he would move out of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock could do nothing more but accept it. He had also said yes to John's request of becoming his best man and here he was today, sitting among the crowd that occupied the round, beautifully decorated tables, watching the newlywed couple dancing in slow circles, in love and certain that what they wanted for their future was each other.

Sherlock did not understand this idea, this sureness, but John was the only friend he had and he wanted nothing else but for him and Mary to be happy.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting next to him, tears of happiness falling down her face. Sherlock gave a little squeeze to her hand and she smiled at him. He smirked back, got up and left the table. It was time for a walk in the lovely garden that surrounded the open space John and Mary had chosen to celebrate the happiest day of their lives.

Small lights lit the place, set here and there, providing a dim light that made the shadows dance. Sherlock walked, unconsciously following the lights for a while, but he noticed then a shadow sitting on the grass. It was a woman. And she seemed to be crying. He was not sure if he wanted to be involved in that matter but with a closer look he realised the woman was actually Molly.

"Molly?" He called.

She looked up and cleaned her face with blunt movements. Some make up was spreading on her cheeks. Since she did not get up, Sherlock found himself kneeling down close to her.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"Yeah, I am fine." She said, composing herself. "I just like seeing them all so happy. It's… they make a very nice couple." She tried to swallow a sob that had risen from her throat. Sherlock gave her a tissue and she started cleaning her cheeks. He then sat next to her, keeping a certain distance.

"They do, don't they?" Sherlock asked. "It's such a strange thing, to see them all so happy for such a mundane thing. A signed paper among many witnesses. Quite ridiculous, I think."

Molly looked at him, her mouth still twisted in an unhappy arch. It seemed like she was going to cry again but she tried to keep a brave face.

"People need certain things to be happy, to reassure them. I am very happy for them."

"You are crying." Sherlock pointed out.

"Just because I am happy for them it doesn't mean I can't be miserable for myself."

The words blurted out before she could stop them. Sherlock looked at her. It was pity she saw in his eyes and he tried to hide it. Ordinary people. He could not understand what they saw in these kind of things. Especially when there was no certainty that the bliss would last forever, with or without a signed paper. But he decided to keep that for himself this time. Molly was quite sensitive and he had said too many things he shouldn't have to her already.

Molly looked at him, sitting by her side and pondered if she should say anything else. She reconsidered and kept her silence. Sherlock was unpredictable and she was not in the mood to hear nasty things from him.

"So, what is troubling you?"

He had asked, in a low voice, looking at the sky instead of at her. It was not very normal of him to actually care. And maybe he didn't, maybe he had just learnt to be polite by living with John.

"I…" she was about to answer that seeing all that, John and Mary and all the happiness, made her think how empty and miserable her life was. But she knew Sherlock well enough to understand he would not know what to make of it, or he would end up saying something unpleasant. Instead she decided to go for a safe matter. "I have to find a new flat to live. My landlord needs mine. I have three months to move. I really liked to live there, cheap rent and a nice place, and I just don't feel like I have the energy to search for something else."

"Well, I am looking for a flat mate."

Sherlock said those words before considering what they might mean to Molly. He was not inviting her in, he was just making a statement. Of course he realised too late that his words had an effect on her that was not the one he desired.

"Are you asking me to be your flat mate?"

Well, now was too late to take the words back. And truth be told, he did need a flatmate and Molly was always helpful to him when he needed. It might come in handy to have a pathologist who got him body parts in the house. Mrs. Hudson would be delighted.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "We both need a flat mate and I don't see anyone who would like to share a flat with me. It's just an idea. So, think about it."

He then got up and Molly watched him going away and being swallowed by the darkness until even his shadow, spread by the many lights of the garden, faded away. She looked at the stars in the sky and cleaning the remaining of the tears from her cheek she smiled. She was not sure if moving in with Sherlock was a good idea, but she surely was not in the mood to let that make her sad again.


	2. Chapter 2

She got up, removing small pieces of grass from her legs.

The whole day had been quite depressing for her. She got up to get dressed, and found the gown she had bought specially for the wedding was ripped right on the back. There was no way she could fix it with so little time to get ready. She had then chosen a new one, a simple one that she always liked to see herself in. It helped her feel comfortable but she lost all confidence when she looked in the mirror. Why did she have to look like that? Why couldn't she just be like all the other girls and have a pretty face? A face that would get people's attention and make them think how lovely she was. Nobody had ever told her she was lovely, nor pretty. She had had relationships but they had been all so shallow and quick, or with psychopaths. Literally. They always ended the same way: her heart broken, the expectations for the future torn apart. It was also her own damn fault, she had to admit. She had the bad habit of creating an utopic future in her head and all her expectations were frustrated sooner or later. If she was prettier maybe she would have been luckier. Maybe Sherlock would like her.

She closed the mirror, mad at herself. Why did it always had to end up like that? All thoughts inevitably ended up on Sherlock. It didn't matter if she was thinking about the way she looked or about her job, even about what to cook for dinner, there was always something that made her think of him. It had been way too long and she thought that with a new relationship her fixation on him would go away. But no, just as it had gone to be replaced by a new boyfriend it would come back. And, if she wanted to be honest to herself, she really never felt for all the others the same way she felt about Sherlock, even though nothing had happened between them. Maybe it was because he was so nonchalant, so indifferent to her, even more than others. Maybe that's why she liked him so much. He was such an idiot sometimes. He did say the nastiest things. But she would always feel like a teenager in love next to him. And, truth be told, he had been the only one to notice she had changed her hair, even if it was just to get a favour from her. At least he had noticed.

She had finally managed to put some make up and fix her hair a bit, parted to the side, and looked in the mirror again. It would have to do.

She thought that beginning of the day might have been enough to trouble her for a whole week but between getting in the taxi and getting to the church she had also lost her wallet. The wallet and her home keys were the only thing she had with her; still she had lost the wallet, probably the most important. And to make it even worse she didn't have any idea where she might have lost it. Luckily enough she had only a few bills in the wallet, as the purse was too small to fit many things, but it was still a bummer.

And now Sherlock had seen her cry, and she was starting to feel guilty for crying at John and Mary's wedding and, in a way, because of their happiness. They really were meant for each other. It was there, in the way they ended each other's sentences and the way they looked in each other's eyes. It was such a nice thing. But no, there was no use in thinking about that again. Mary deserved the best from her bride's maid. She was one of the people, together with Sherlock, who had signed the witnesses' book at the church, and she should be making the most of this wedding party. She sniffled one last time and cleaned herself with the tissue Sherlock had given her. Then, composed, she walked in the direction of the party. The band had stopped playing for a while and she heard John's voice speaking to the microphone.

"Oh, there she is! No worries, we have found our bride's maid!"

Molly looked around, feeling uneasy. All eyes were set on her. Sherlock was also next to the stage with a strange look on his face. He had rolled his eyes when John announced her.

"Come here Molly. It's time to dance!"

John was not drunk, but he was happy indeed. Mary was close to him, smiling as well. Molly froze, unsure of what to do. John called her name again.

"Molly! We're waiting. We are going to dance. I want to dance with my wife's bride's maid!"

Molly gave a few steps forward, starting to panic. She was not the best dancer in the world. Actually, she might even be the worst. What if she tripped and fell and ripped her dress? She surely had no other to substitute it, and she had a special love for this dress. She shook her head a bit, now closer to the small stage where the band was set. It was no time to think about dresses. John got down from the stage and offered his hand, smiling. He knew her and also knew how she hated attention.

"Come on." He smiled and grabbed her hand. He then looked at the stage and Molly saw Mary grab Sherlock's unwilling hand as well. A few more couples gathered together in the centre of the dance floor. The music began and Molly's mouth was dry as that summer night. John started dancing in circles and looked at her, still smiling like a small boy.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

She tried to speak but the words got stuck. She cleared her throat.

"Yes, I wasn't expecting this."

"You disappeared."

"Yes, I needed a bit of time to myself. I am sorry." And she added. "I am very honoured to be your witness and Mary's bride's maid. You make a lovely couple and I think - no, I know - you are going to be very happy."

John smiled again, it seemed that that was the only thing he was able to do this night.

"If I tell you a secret, you promise you won't tell anyone?" He asked. The music was loud enough that nobody but her could hear.

"Sure." She guaranteed.

"We're having a baby."

Molly smiled too, mimicking John's face. Those were very good news. Very good indeed. And that's what Molly told John.

"I am so happy for you!"

"Yeah. She's still almost three months pregnant, you can't tell yet. But she's a little afraid to announce to everyone, because of what happened last time. And I know Sherlock would not understand my joy, though he does try hard, I have to give him that. And I am so happy I had to tell someone!"

He said those last words almost as if he was choking on then. He recovered and added.

"She only just told me today."

He laughed, from ear to ear, and Molly laughed with him. Those were such good news. She stepped on his toe.

"Ouch!"

"I am so sorry John!" She said, getting away from him.

"Oh, you are done with my man? Can I have him back?"

Mary's happy voice asked Molly. Molly nodded, ready to go back to the table and sit, away from all the commotion and the dance.

"Okay, then. We can switch." Mary said, and getting away from Sherlock she placed his hand over Molly's hand, squeezing them together. "That one is almost a professional. Have fun with him."

And without even waiting she grabbed John's hand and they went in circles, away from them.

Molly stopped on her feet. When Sherlock's hand touched her she felt as if an electrified wire had touched her body. The energy was enough to make her legs start to shake. She was not sure she could give a step, talk about dancing, but she felt too weak to move anyway, so she just stood there. She realised now that she had never before touched Sherlock, except for that time he had apologised at the Christmas' party, and had given her a kiss on the cheek. She looked up and found Sherlock's eyes. He was not looking at her, but at the hand he was holding. He felt her eyes on him and he looked back.

"Shall we dance, then?" He asked.

Molly was not sure any sound could come out of her mouth but she tried anyway.

"I am not very good at dancing. I just stepped on John's toe."

"It's okay." Sherlock said, all business. "Just follow my lead. Don't fight it. Just go."

And without giving her time to think about his instructions he held her tight by the hip and squeezed her hand more and started spinning, to the rhythm of the song. Molly let herself go and she realised that if she didn't try to dance, with him, she could actually do it. There were strange butterflies on her stomach, a bit different from the ones she usually felt around Sherlock, but it was not a bad feeling. Her breath started to become uneven, faster. She was swirling on the dance floor and it didn't seem forced nor inadequate or weird. It felt… right, easy. The music stopped and so did they. The singer of the band was talking but Molly could not make out what he was saying. When they stopped dancing she sensed Sherlock's eyes scrutinizing her features and she looked up. Her eyes locked on his and he did not turn away. Neither of them blinked. Sherlock's hand on her was soft and warm, something she had not realised yet. And somehow, strong as well, and gave her a feeling of comfort and protection.

A new song started and Sherlock came out of his trance. He stepped away from her and let go of her hand. But not at once, slowly. He closed his hand in a fist and Molly stood there, hand outstretched.

"Well, that was… okay. You are not such a bad dancer. Well, at least you are good at following the lead instead of fighting against it."

He nodded once and turned away. Molly saw him go and realised she was still there, her hand still a little outstretched, alone in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by couples that had started dancing to the rhythm of the slow song that had replaced the last one. She looked around embarrassed and went to sit by the table. Mrs Hudson should be sitting there, between her and the place Sherlock occupied but she was gone. With a new look at the dance floor, Molly saw her there, the queen of the party. She smiled and Mrs. Hudson waved back. Molly looked around, trying to quiet down her heart a little bit, looking for Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen. A breeze made the hairs on her arms raise but, strange at it may seem, she had never felt like that in her whole life, cocooned in warmth and happiness.

The night had become a bit colder. Most guests had gone home by now, even those who did not have to take care of children and out them to sleep. The cake had been cut and tasted and the champagne served. The groom had sung to the bride and both had read their vows. It had been a happy night. Molly said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, who left with company. That tough woman must have had more boyfriends in a year than Molly had had in a life time. But, who could ever resist to Mrs. Hudson's charm? Molly smiled as she disappeared around the corner. The catering team was already tidying up a little, the singer was eating and laughing while the band played a jazz song, relaxed. John and Mary were still dancing, leaning on each other, cheek to cheek again, eyes closed and without even bothering to follow the rhythm of the song. Lost in each other.

"Aren't you going home?"

Sherlock had startled her. She jumped a little and looked at him. He smirked at her. He had disappeared for most of the evening and now here he was. He pointed her the exit of the party with his head and started walking. Molly followed him and answered.

"Yes, I should be going, it's late anyway. I need to take a taxi…" she took her hands to her head, exhaling in frustration. "Oh, shit!"

Sherlock was surprised. Molly didn't use that kind of language. He looked at her, and at her purse.

"You bring no wallet with you. So, you lost it, or you wouldn't bring such a big purse to the wedding just with what seems to be the house keys. Therefore, you have no money for the taxi."

Molly looked at him. She had forgotten how Sherlock could read through anyone so fast. She nodded.

"It's okay." He said. "We'll share the taxi. If you don't mind my company."

Molly agreed and rubbed her arms. It was cold now and with the change on her dress and no coat to match the one she had to bring instead she had come like that, relying on the weather to remain warm. Sherlock looked at her and without saying anything unbuttoned the coat of his own tuxedo and placed it over Molly's shoulder. She gazed at him, surprised but pleased.

"You're cold." He stated, trying to dismiss the gesture with the simple explanation. "Please, allow me to be nice to you for once."

He did not wait for an answer. They had walked to the main street and he raised a hand as he saw a black taxi appear in the bend of the road. The taxi stopped and Sherlock held the door so Molly could get in. She did and thanked him without words, just with a nod of her head. Sherlock gave the directions to the taxi driver.

"221B Baker Street, please."

And the taxi drove off, with Molly wondering why he had said his address when her house should be the first on the route, since it was closer and he was going to pay for the ride. She did not argue. Maybe he would invite her in for a coffee and who knows… "Stop it, Molly," she thought, looking outside the window. She was aware of Sherlock's arm against her own and, for the first time that day, she was thankful for being such h a clumsy, unlucky person. Ripping her dress and losing the wallet might have been the best things to have happened to her on that day.


	3. Chapter 3

The taxi arrived at 221B Baker Street and stopped. Sherlock got out and held the door so Molly could get out as well. He then paid the taxi driver, who went away, disappearing into the darkness of the night. Molly looked at Sherlock, unsure of what to do.

"I was thinking that maybe you should see the flat before you actually decide something. Unless you're in a hurry to go home."

Molly shook her head.

"No. It's not like I have something there waiting for me, anyway."

Sherlock gazed at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time. He never stopped long to think about people apart from what he was able to observe with his own eyes. Molly had cut her hair probably two weeks ago, you could see for the break on it that she always wore it tied on a ponytail. She bit her polished nails and was wearing a recently bought lipstick. The dress she had on had been wore many times, probably her favourite, but the shoes were new. All this he could see by taking a closer look at her. But then, if anyone asked him about Molly, how she felt, what did she like, he wouldn't know what to say. That struck him with more power than he had expected. Wasn't it a flaw? To know what people did but not really know who they were? He dismissed the thought. He had known for a long time what it was to go back to an empty house, apart from Mrs. Hudson's company, but it had changed since John had moved in. And he never gave too much thought to it, even when he was alone. And now that Molly mentioned it he realised that they had something in common, even if the fact bothered Molly more than it bothered him.

He opened the door and let Molly be the first to get into the house. A scent of moist was in the air, the flat didn't have the best isolation in London. It was dark, only a small light coming from upstairs, as he had left the window open. Molly waited for him to go up the stairs and followed him, entering in 221B for the first time. She had acquainted Sherlock for a few years now, but in truth, she knew nothing about him. She felt as if that flat was an island and she was just a kid, about to find her treasure at the end of the rainbow.

The light from the post lamps of the street got in through the window, making the shadows lengthen inside the flat. It was messy. Books and old newspapers were spread all over the place. Not just on the shelf next to the fireplace, but over tables, chairs and even on the floor. There was a skull above the fireplace and a board of Cluedo nailed to the wall with a sharp knife. She wondered why but had no doubt that it had been Sherlock's job. There was a violin next to the window, placed on its stand and an unfinished piece of music, loose notes scribbled on a sheet of paper. There were two chairs in the centre, right in front of the fireplace and a couch as well, on the other side. The carpet on the floor must have been there since forever and a smiley face was painted in yellow on the wall. It was a mess indeed. No signs of organization. Somehow, she liked it. It was different from all her labelled drawers and folded clothes. Sometimes it was just good to get out of her organization. It felt like freedom. Sherlock was staring at her, analysing her reaction to the flat.

"Do you play the violin?" Molly asked, pointing at it.

Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. It helps me think."

"And you compose as well." She approached the window, getting next to the violin stand, running a finger though the sheets of paper, without realising it. For some reason Sherlock didn't seem bothered.

"Yes. I try, at least. I have been trying to finish that one for months, but I just can't find the right melody."

"I am sure you will get there eventually." She said, looking back at him and smiling.

He smiled back. For some reason Molly made him feel guilty all the time. She was always so nice and polite to him and he sometimes forgot how sensitive she could be. Now he understood that the reason he felt guilty was because she really was nice. She didn't try or fake. That's who she really was, without layers nor masks. A pure heart.

Molly looked around and spotted the kitchen.

"Oh, you have got yourself a lab here!"

Unlike John her tone was of delight. She seemed thrilled with all the paraphernalia he had lying around, without order nor reason. She looked at the test-tubes with mixtures of different colours and then looked though the microscope. She smiled.

"More ashes? Did you find the 244th?"

Sherlock frowned his eyebrows and as he didn't answer, she looked up.

"I read your blog. 'The science of deduction.'" She seemed amused.

"Are you making fun of me?" Sherlock asked, affected.

"No. I just think it's a nice name. It has some interesting things as well there." She didn't seem to be mocking him now.

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked, surprised. The only time someone had acted like that before, as if what he did was interesting and amazing, was when he met John.

"Yes, of course. It may be important when solving cases. People sometimes overlook simple but important things. I think that the more you learn, the better."

She smiled and went around the kitchen, opening cabinets. There were not many things there, and most of the ones that were, were already rotten.

"You don't eat much, do you?" She inquired, surprised by the lack of food.

"No, not really."

"Would it be okay for you if I did?" she asked.

"Of course. You can do whatever you like. John ate all the time."

Molly smiled. He said that as if it was unnatural.

"I like food. It can comfort you as well. Sometimes food is like a good movie or a hug. Everybody needs hugs, right?"

Sherlock didn't know what to answer that. Molly continued. She opened the fridge. Sherlock had kept two eyeballs inside a jar.

"Oh, here is Mr. Jones. I was wondering how he had been and what he had seen. I would think he would have a more thrilling life than living on a fridge. Well, I guess we can't always get what we want."

Sherlock actually laughed at it. She must have been the first person to have such an unaffected reaction to organs on the fridge. She had been the one to get him the eyes, but still. Molly threw him a quizzical look.

"Sorry. It's just that John used to complain about that a lot. Would you mind it very much?"

"Eyes on the fridge? Well, it's not what I like to eat with my breakfast but if you promise to use them for experiments that do not involve me I am okay in keeping them in the fridge."

She stopped for a bit, looking around and waiting for Sherlock to say something.

"So, what do you think? I must warn you, as you probably already noted, that I am not the most organized person and this is how the flat is most of the time."

"It's okay." She said. "I won't touch your things, you won't touch mine. I think we can manage."

"Your room will be John's old room. It's upstairs, if you care to take a look at it."

"Sure. I need to know where I am going to sleep. I love sleeping."

Sherlock showed her the stairs to the room but did not follow her. She disappeared and he picked his violin from the stand. He needed music.

Molly entered the room. It was decorated in a very simple manner. The white wallpaper must have been replaced recently. She assumed that John's choice had been taken in consideration that time. There was a bed in the centre of the room and a night stand with a few drawers. On the corner stood a wardrobe, old but solid, and also a chair. She sat on the bed, the mattress showing because there were no sheets on it. Above a chest of drawers was a painting, framed. "The lost Vermeer". Of course it was the fake. Molly had read about the case on the newspapers. She got up and stroked the paint with light movements. There it was, to prove it. The Van Buuren Supernova. Molly looked around. From downstairs she could hear a soft melody. Sherlock was playing his violin. She listened for a while, enjoying the music. It was sad, slow and beautiful. She took a deep breath and sat again, thinking. Was she really ready to move in with Sherlock? To share all her days in his company, to see him when she got home and before leaving to work? Was she really prepared to spend her days looking at the only man she wanted and knew would never had? Because she knew herself well. She was aware of what she felt for him. She had never heard of Sherlock having a girlfriend. And she was not naïve to believe she would be the lucky one. So, was she ready to have her heart broken over and over again until it had had so much that it would finally become immune to all of the pain and longing?

She took a deep breath. Maybe not. Still, as she got up and went down the stairs, with the music still playing in the living room, she knew that as soon as he asked what she thought, she would say the words. 'It's perfect,' she would say. And she would be moving as fast as bringing all her things there would allow her.


	4. Chapter 4

She came down the stairs, pacing slowly, step by step, as the music flowed through the house. When she entered the living room Sherlock stopped playing and looked at her. He then placed the violin on its stand and asked her.

"So, what do you think?"

"It's perfect." Molly answered. "There's exactly what I need to put my clothes and my things."

"You can use that desk there." Sherlock pointed at a desk in the corner. "To put some other things and write if you need. It was John's, so it's okay."

She took another look at the room.

"Do you mind if I use that shelf to put my books? I have quite a few and they won't fit upstairs."

"Of course." Sherlock assented.

He stared at her, without any other word. Molly felt self-conscious; she was not used to have Sherlock noticing her like that. She felt herself blushing.

"Well, I should be going." And she picked her purse from where she had left it, on the couch. "Thank you for the coat and for the ride. Oh," she remembered. "Can I ask you some money for the ride home?"

"Why don't you stay?"

The words came out of his mouth somehow and he blinked a few times, trying to rationalize why he had said them. Molly seemed as surprised as he was.

"I mean, it's late already. You could just stay in John's room and then tomorrow morning we can both go to your place and start bringing the things here."

Molly swallowed. She was trying to figure out if there was any meaning behind Sherlock's words. He was being so… not himself. Proposing to become her flatmate, now asking her to spend the night there.

"The bed is not made."

"Oh, we've got some sheets upstairs. I mean, if you prefer to go home I would be glad to pay for the taxi, it's just you don't have to. We'll have to go there in the morning anyway."

"Okay, then." Molly accepted. She picked up her purse.

"I will go and put things in place. " She looked at herself. "Oh, I've got nothing to wear."

Sherlock went to his room and came back without a word.

"Here. You can give it back to me later." He extended his hand and Molly took what he was giving her without thinking. She looked at the clothes in her own hand. From the size of it, it could only be one of his pyjamas.

"Thank you." She said, looking at him. She wanted to add anything else, but was lost for words.

"Not at all. I will be going to bed as well in a minute. You can use the bathroom if you want."

And he left for his own room, leaving her alone. Molly went to the bathroom. She let her hair fall around her shoulders. She liked the feeling, it made her feel free. She removed the dress and put on Sherlock's pyjamas. Unable to resist, she smelled it, grabbing it with her hands. It smelled fresh and it was comfortable. The size was, obviously, too big for her, but for some reason it made her feel even warmer and more protected. She looked at her own reflection. She didn't have anything to remove her make up so soap and water would have to do. Brushing her teeth with no toothbrush was a challenge but she did the best she could. When she finished she had her cheeks red and her breath fresh. She sat for a little bit, trying to compose herself. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, kettle in hand and turned around as she entered the living room.

"Sorry for the wait." She said. "I had to clean myself up the best I could. The mascara will need a proper product but the rest came off easily."

"You look nice, anyway." Sherlock said. He passed her a mug with tea. He had made tea for both. Molly was impressed.

"John taught me how to make a proper tea, but that's where my ability to cook or prepare food or drinks in general goes. I hope it's drinkable for you."

Molly sipped a bit of the tea. It had sugar, just like she liked.

"It's good, thank you."

"You're welcome." He said. He took a deep breath.

"Well, I am going to change. Good night, Molly." He said. And picking his own mug he left her alone and retired for his room.

"'Night." She answered back, as he was leaving. She warmed her hands in her own mug and went up the stairs.

She found the sheets easily and made the bed. In the wardrobe was also a pillow and she sat on the bed, finishing her tea. Downstairs the violin music had begun, slow and not as loud as earlier. It had been a very strange day but, all in all, she was not unhappy with it. After all, he had said she looked nice.

0

When Molly woke up the next day it took her a few minutes to realise where she was. A bit of light came in from the ceiling window and she just stood there for a while, letting the light bathe her and make her eyes feel even sleepier, taking advantage of the comfort of that bed. It was a good thing Sherlock's pyjamas were so big. They helped her stay warm the whole night. She would probably need one more blanket for the rest of the time. That was one of the disadvantages of sleeping alone.

She put on her dress from the night before again, feeling slightly uncomfortable now. She needed a nice shower and her things back. She came down the stairs. Sherlock was already up, on the phone. Molly waited for him to finish the call and sat at a chair in the kitchen.

Sherlock turned around, hanging up.

"Oh, you're up. Here, some money for the taxi."

Molly smiled and took the money.

"Thank you. I should be going. Thanks for letting me stay."

"When are you moving in?"

"Oh, there's a lot to pack. My landlord got me some boxes but I haven't started yet. I'll start today and we'll see how things go."

Sherlock looked around and then back at her.

"Would you like some help with packing? I am sure it will be faster if I help you."

Molly was surprised. Sherlock wasn't acting much like himself since the day before. Still, she did need a hand. It would make things easier and she would be done a lot faster."

"Sure." She agreed. "I have a few things, but not all that many things. If you help me it will be faster."

"Obviously." Sherlock stated and he put his coat on. Then, looking at Molly and remembering she didn't have a coat of her own he lent her his own, the same he had taken to the wedding and was still hanging on the chair, abandoned. "Here. It's not such a pleasant day as it was yesterday."

Molly accepted the coat gladly and as Sherlock went down the stairs, she followed. They took the taxi and Molly gave her own address to the taxi driver.

While the trip lasted she started to get worried. With all the trouble she had with changing dresses and getting ready to the wedding the day before, her apartment was a big mess. But then she realised that, compared to Sherlock's, it could probably be seen as clean and tidy.

Molly opened the door of her house and the smell of the clothes she had left to dry on the balcony received her. It was a familiar smell. She held the door for Sherlock.

"Get in. It's not very clean, but we are going to make a mess out of it anyway." She apologised.

Sherlock walked in the apartment, looking around. She had a vase with flowers over the living room table. Sunflowers, they were. Bought two days ago. Clothes were hanging all over the chairs. In the kitchen all was tidy and in place except for a glass of water. Around the living room were books, placed casually everywhere. Two by the sofa, one of them was marked with a bookmark. She was almost finishing it. The other one behind was also marked. She was reading two books at a time. One was a novel, the other a science fiction book. There were more books over the cabinets and even a few placed above the small piano she had. A notebook was open and a sheet of music showing. By looking at the piano Sherlock realised she played regularly, she had been playing the night before the wedding. She had a drawing with a model of the human body hung on the wall, next to the window. But, apart from that, Molly didn't seem to be the type of person who took work home. There was a very tidy shelf with many science and pathology books, but that was about it. Another shelf on the other corner was piled up with books, in a big disorder.

Molly came from what seemed to be a spare room with some card boxes in her hand.

"Here." She said. "We can put things in these boxes and then we can call a moving company."

"I did that already."

"You did?" she could not disguise the tone of surprise on her voice.

"Yes. It was the same that John hired when he moved to 221B and out of it. They said they can come by tomorrow in the morning."

"Oh, thank you. I… You didn't have to."

"It's no trouble. I figured you would need."

Molly's stomach growled loudly.

"Oops." She said. With the rush to come to her apartment imposed by Sherlock, she had forgotten to eat. "Do you mind if I eat something first? And I really need to take a shower and change these clothes."

"It's not a problem." Sherlock said. "If you want I can start on the books."

Molly seemed unsure. She loved her books and she didn't know how Sherlock would take care of them. Sherlock sensed how reticent she was and understood.

"It's okay." He promised. "I'll be careful."

Molly nodded. She decided to take a shower first and then eat. She was really feeling bad about how she looked and Sherlock always made her feel self-conscious.

Sherlock heard the water on the shower start to run. He was not really sure what had taken over him. Maybe it was the fact that John had left Baker Street for good. With the wedding everything seemed a lot more definitive to him. John was not going to come back and, even though the doctor would still be living in London, when both he and Mary came back from the honey moon, things would have a different course from what they had before. Once more, Sherlock had been left alone. He could hardly blame John. Or Mary. But to be honest to himself, it was a strange idea. And empty apartment, apart from him and Mrs. Hudson. A few years ago that would have been no problem for him, on the contrary. But John had fit so well in his life. Putting up with his bad moods and crazy ideas. Sherlock felt that an empty space had been left in 221B. Molly was a dangerous choice. He was not oblivious to the glances she shot at him every time he passed by the lab for some researched. She had invited him for coffee once but he had dismissed the invite pretending to have misunderstood her intentions. And how many times had he used that power to get what he needed from her. Yes, he was aware of what Molly felt. But, in reality, he thought that was all non-sense. Molly barely knew him. She would probably hate him when she saw how he really was, once she had to put up with him daily. So, all in all, maybe it hasn't been a bad idea after all.

He picked up a card box and started placing the important books first, carefully not to bend the cover nor rip anything apart. Some of the books showed signs of being worn out. They had been read many times. Amongst the science books Sherlock found a small book that nothing had to do with Molly's work. It had been read too many times as well, probably more than any of the others. The little Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. It had a hard cover but it was coming apart. It had been repaired with bits of tape but with no much improvement. He passed a finger through the binder.

"It was my mom's."

Molly's voice startled him. He had not realised she had finished taking her bath. Her wet hair fell in a cascade down her shoulders and she had replaced the dress with jeans and a plain red shirt. Simple, nice. Her cheeks were red from scrubbing and he noticed for the first time how big her eyelashes were.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to pry. This was among the important books. And it is so worn out."

"Yes. My mom used to read that story to me when I was a child. She died when I was ten. That was her favourite story so I read it every week. I feel her closer to me."

Molly explained all this. Then she realised Sherlock was not like everybody else. He would not understand. She took the book from his hands.

"It's an important book to me." And then she remembered something she heard John say to Sherlock to explain what she meant to say. "Feeling." She said.

Sherlock nodded. Feeling, yes. He got it.

"What is it about?" He asked.

"It's about how you are responsible for the things you captivate. How you are responsible for the things you keep. Maybe I can read it to you someday."

Sherlock smiled, without answering. It was not likely. He got back to work. Molly got away for a second, with the book in her hands. She placed it over the piano and left for the kitchen. She then came back with a few toasts on a plate.

"You can have some if you want. I made a few."

Sherlock refused. He opened a new box and they continued to put things in to the boxes, working together and alone, not sharing more than occasional and indifferent looks.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock stood in the apartment the next morning. Mrs. Hudson, informed that Molly Hooper would be moving in, had bought a few things for the house. Food, mostly, but also a few flowers and new sheets for Molly's bed. Everything was a little too flourishing in Sherlock's opinion, but he knew about crime and investigation and Mrs. Hudson knew about houses. She hadn't liked the small decoration he had helped create in the wall of the house, with the shots of a gun, go figure.

Molly had called him a few hours ago saying she would go to Baker Street as soon as she left work. The moving company had delivered that morning all the boxes she and Sherlock had packed the day before. All of them were marked with permanent black pen. Sherlock had left the boxes with the books in the living room and had carried the rest upstairs, to the room she would now occupy. As strange as it may seem, Molly didn't have all that many things. Not for a girl, at least. Sherlock couldn't deny he was a little nervous. Living with John had turned out to be the easiest thing, but John put up with many things. He didn't know how Molly would deal with his day to day life. He knew he could be very hard to take when there were weeks with no case. Boredom had a tendency to make him irascible and rude.

Someone rang the bell downstairs. Mrs. Hudson went to open the door. Sherlock heard her coming up the stairs, talking to a slightly apprehensive Molly. Molly didn't know Mrs. Hudson all that well, they had seen each other once or twice. And Mrs. Hudson was already giving her tips and offering help.

"So, anything you need you just have to ask, I am usually downstairs. Still, I am not your housekeeper, so you have to keep the house tidy between the two of you."

Molly tried to assure Mrs. Hudson that what she was asking would be done but Mrs. Hudson was already calling Sherlock. He got up and opened the door of the apartment. Molly came up the stairs, a white cardigan and a colourful sweater, her hair in a ponytail, as usual. She was carrying a small box with her but seemed to be having some struggle with it. Sherlock came down a few steps and picked the package for her. It was a bit heavy. Molly thanked and Mrs. Hudson said her goodbyes, saying she would leave the two of them alone. The implications on Mrs. Hudson's voice were not strange to Sherlock, she was always doing the same with John.

Molly walked in the apartment and looked around.

"Oh, there are boxes missing." She noticed.

"They are upstairs, I took them in the afternoon. I left here the books and such."

"Oh, thanks. It was nice of you."

She put her purse on the couch. It was still strange for her to walk into the apartment as if it was hers. She was going to live there but somehow she didn't feel like it belonged to her as well. 221B would always be Sherlock's apartment. Even the absence of John seemed strange. Since they had met at the lab it was rare for Molly to see one without the other. She was sure John would still come back to the apartment to pay a visit. It was true he was the only close friend Sherlock had, but it worked the other way around as well. Sherlock was, besides Mary, the only friend John had.

"Well, make yourself at home." Sherlock said, making a large gesture with his arm, as if showing the apartment.

"I will try my best." Sherlock placed the box she was carrying on top of the couch.

"It's heavy. What is it?"

"Oh, it's just a hobby. Sewing machine. I forgot to pack it yesterday, it was kept under my bed. I barely use it. I don't have much time, with work and all."

Molly looked around the living room again. There was something else missing.

"Where is my piano?"

"I asked the delivery guys to put it upstairs. I figure it would be better. I like playing the violin downstairs and I don't think that would be a good combination."

Molly nodded, Sherlock was already claiming his space, but Molly fond that only natural. The flat had always been his.

"It's okay." She said. "I have room for it upstairs and it's probably better. I like to play in the middle of the night. It helps me. I hope you don't mind."

Sherlock gazed at her, a look of surprise on his face.

"Not at all." He said. "I like playing the violin at night as well, sometimes. It helps me think."

"Maybe we should make a band!" Molly said, laughing at her own joke. She then paced away from Sherlock, and into the kitchen. She found the kettle easily. It was placed next to the microwave. She put the water in the kettle and turned it on. She then returned to the living room. Sherlock was still in the same place, he had followed all her movements.

"I am going to take tomorrow off; I already talked to my boss. So I can put things in place. I haven't taken vacations in almost two years, so he was more than happy that I was taking a day to myself."

"Two years?" Sherlock asked. "But you spend the whole day in that lab. Why so long without a break?"

"Well, I always end up being bored when I go on vacations. It's not very easy to have fun alone. It's usually traumatizing. So, I prefer to work."

Sherlock felt sorry for her. Never for a second had he realised how lonely Molly must be. She had dates sometimes, he knew that. She had dated a few men but that never lasted. And she had no girlfriends, apparently. Her terrible and gruesome jokes didn't help either. In a way, she was as bad as he was when trying to make small talk. Always using the worst references. Death bodies, post mortem, macabre stories. By working with corpses Molly had also developed a sort of alienation when it came to feelings. Not like Sherlock, of course. She still cared. But she knew dying was part of life and did not face that fact like most people do, with pity. She faced it as an ordinary fatality. Actually, the only trace of sentiment he had noticed about Molly had been the day before, when she talked about her mom. But Sherlock knew that all that disengaged talk about death was much more a mask than what was inside her. Molly was too sensitive. The fact that she had no friends and no stable relationship for years showed that. She was afraid of caring and people were always letting her down because she trusted everyone. She always wanted to help everyone; no matter what the issue was or how it may be harmful to her. Then, when they didn't need her anymore they would let her down, alone again. So, Molly had become distant and unattached. She had learnt from experience. In a way, Mycroft would be happy with her. On the other hand he would consider her a fool. Because, deep down, she would always care and always fall for the same. Molly Hooper. She was, Sherlock realised now, anything but ordinary. She might even be, as far as he knew, fascinating.

Molly poured some tea in a mug and added milk. She passed it to Sherlock and then got one for herself. She sat at the couch, looking at the fireplace while sipping the tea. Sherlock noticed she was warming up her hands on the mug.

"Is that a skull?" She was surprised. She got up and left her mug behind. She held the skull in her hands. From the inside of it, a pack of cigarettes fell. She picked it up.

"Thought you had quit?" It was a question.

"I did." Sherlock showed her the nicotine patch on his arm, folding his shirt sleeve up. Just one patch. "But that one is for urgencies."

Molly smiled.

"The skull at least is cool." She said, and she put it down again, concealing the cigarettes inside, just where they were. She then started to pace next to the self. It was quite full, mostly because of the disorganization than for the actual number of books that were there. Sherlock had some interesting book. Then again, she knew he was an endless source of knowledge. He might not know that the earth revolved around the sun, but if you questioned anything about the periodic table he would answer without hesitation. He was a strange one. Deliciously strange. Molly shook her head slightly and came back for her cup of tea. It was no time to have those kind of thoughts.

She finished her cup of tea and placed hers and Sherlock's in the kitchen sink. She then looked around.

"Hum, it's not going to be easy to cook here. Do you want to order something?"

"I am not hungry." Sherlock said. Of course he wasn't.

Molly nodded and picked her own cell phone. She ordered two pizzas. She was hungry but, mainly, she expected Sherlock to eat with her. Molly came back to the living room and sat down. She had chosen Sherlock's chair. He didn't say anything. She watched some TV while Sherlock made some research, using the microscope in the kitchen. The door rang. It was the pizza guy. Molly went downstairs, assuring Mrs. Hudson it was for her, paid for the pizza and came back inside, two card boxes on her hand. She made some room on the table Sherlock had assigned for her and opened the boxes there. She grabbed a knife and cut the pizza into pieces. She then called Sherlock.

"Don't you want to join me? I think this is too much for me alone." Sherlock raised his eyes and before he could say no, she added. "Please. Just a bit."

Sherlock wasn't hungry but Molly really looked like she wanted him to join her. Well, a bit of pizza wouldn't hurt. He picked two chairs from the kitchen table and they sat at the small table in the living room, napkins in hand. Molly picked a big piece of pizza and passed it to Sherlock. She then took one for herself and smiled before taking a bite.

"Hum, it's great." She said, covering her full mouth with her hand. "Eat."

Sherlock looked at the slice of pizza in his own hand, unsure. He tasted a little of it, the cheese stretching with no end. Molly was laughing at his struggle with the cheese. He smiled back. It was not bad at all.

"It's tasty." He said.

"Pizza never disappoints." And as he had finished the first slice, she passed him another.

In forty five minutes they had almost finished the whole two boxes. Sherlock was full. He had never felt so full before. Molly was scrubbing her tummy.

"Now, this was a real meal. I haven't eaten a pizza in many months. I always cook for myself, try to have a healthy life. It tasted good, though."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. It had tasted good indeed. But he needed to go back to his research.

"I will clear the table tomorrow. So you can use the kitchen to cook and do whatever you want."

"You don't have to; I understand it is your work stand."

"No, it's fine. We are two in this flat now. John used to go crazy and I had removed it but then he left so I out everything back. But don't worry, I will tidy it up."

"Okay, then. Tomorrow I will clean that shelf and make some more room for my books, if you don't mind." She said.

"Not at all." Sherlock agreed. "It's your house as well now."

Molly smiled. The way Sherlock had said those words felt good. She just hoped she could feel at home eventually. She sat again in his chair, unaware that it had an owner, and picked a book to read.

0

The next day Molly woke up to the sound of birds singing next to the ceiling window. It was a little weird to have the day all to herself. She stretched her arms and got up. She went down the stairs and looked for Sherlock. He wasn't there and for some reason she felt the flat was empty. She called his name but there was no response. She made a cup of tea and then took a shower. She was all dressed up and braiding her long hair when Sherlock walked in the room, looking for something.

"Hello." He said. "I had to leave; Lestrade had a case for me. I didn't want to wake you up. Did you sleep well?"

"I felt a bit cold, but apart from that it was okay. I need to buy some warmer pyjamas. But it's fine. I was going to tidy the books up a bit to make room for mine and then I can start unpacking things. I would like to put things in place here first."

"Sorry I can't help. I came home to pick up my phone and I have to leave again. We need to check on the crime scene."

"Anything interesting?"

"A man was found by the river. A strange case." He didn't explain further. Molly shook her head and he added. "Okay, then. I will see you later."

And he went out again, not even looking behind. Molly shrugged and started to remove the books from the shelf.

Around two in the afternoon Molly had been able to remove all books, place them on the shelf again and find place for her own. It was not an easy chore but it was finally done. The books were placed the best way she could find, some of them standing, some lying down on the now packed shelf.

She looked around. Now the living room needed a bit of tidying up as well. She started putting things in place, except for Sherlock's table. He had asked her not to touch it. There were probably important things there. She had stopped to eat and then continued. When she finished she realised that all the paraphernalia Sherlock was using the night before was still over the kitchen table. Well, she did need to put her things in place upstairs as well, so that would have to be a job for Sherlock. She went to her room and unpacked all her things, finding a place for them. Luckily enough the room was big. Even with her piano next to the far wall she still had plenty of room to move around. Without the boxes and with everything in the wardrobe and drawers it was even better. She liked it. It looked more like her own space. She had also brought the little teddy bear her dad had given her a few birthdays ago, before he died. He had told her that he was the most proud man in the world because she had managed to keep some of her childish ways. She had laughed at the present but was now glad for it. That teddy bear was a good way to keep her father close. She placed the teddy bear over the piano and looked around again. The light from the ceiling was making it possible to see the little bits of dust spread around the room. It was nice.

She consulted her watch. It was late already. She paced downstairs. Should she wait for Sherlock to have dinner? Well, she was going to make some soup, so he could help himself later. While the soup was on the making Molly decided to clean the kitchen's table. She found some space over a table in the living room and put all his things there, the microscope and the experiments. She then had dinner and left a plate so he could have some soup as well when he came back. It seemed like he would never come back.

The night set in and Molly decided to relax for a little. It had been a lot of cleaning and tidying up for a day. She felt good, though. Mission accomplished. She picked a book and started to read, sitting in the leather chair. It was comfortable and it smelled like Sherlock. She smiled and started reading, immersed in the world the book presented before her eyes.

When Sherlock got home it was almost midnight. The case had been pretty simple but Lestrade had needed his help and his presence to prove it all. He took off his coat as he entered the apartment. He stopped right at the entrance.

Molly had fallen asleep on his chair, a book against her chest and her head a bit to the side, in an uncomfortable position. Her hair was tied in a braid and she breathed rhythmically, her mouth slightly open. Sherlock smiled. She looked adorable. But that was not a place to sleep. He picked her up carefully and tried to carry her up the stairs to her room without moving her too much. He didn't want her to wake up. He placed her on her bead, removed the ballerinas she used to wear around the house - her feet were so small - and covered her with the sheets and the blankets. She was still holding the book so he placed it on the bedside table. She breathed deeply and held the pillow. Sherlock stood there, looking at her for a while. He then shook his head, not sure of what he was doing and went downstairs, closing the door of the room behind him. He would not play the violin that night. From what he had observed, Molly had put all her things in place and still had cleaned the whole living room a little. She had even found a nice place to put all his things that were over the kitchen table. There was soup to eat and a plate and spoon ready, just for him. He heated up the soup in the microwaves and ate it silently. It tasted good. Yes, no violin. Molly deserved to rest.

Molly woke up in her own bed at around three in the morning. She felt cold. The pyjamas she had were a little bit too short and light, and the room was colder than the one where she used to sleep, in her old apartment. She got up and sat on her bed. Wait, she didn't remember coming to bed. She must have fallen asleep on the couch while reading. It had been a tiring day. But then, how did she end up there? She rubbed her eyes. Had it been Sherlock? Did he bring her there? The last time she remembered falling asleep on the couch and waking up in her own bed was when she was a child. You lose those privileges as you grow up. It had been nice of him. She looked at her right side. At the bottom of her bed, folded in a much disorganized manner were Sherlock's pyjamas, the ones she had given him back the day before. She picked them up. There was a note on top of it. 'You can have this one until you buy a warmer one for yourself. SH.' Molly removed her own pyjamas and put his on. She smiled and curled into bed. She felt like a little ball of fur; warm and comfortable. And mostly, happy.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next few weeks Sherlock and Molly got used to each other. Molly spent a lot of time working and Sherlock spent most of his time solving cases and getting bored. John used to come by the flat regularly after he returned from the honey moon, and also Mary used to make them some company. Sometimes Molly would cook for everyone and they would just spend an evening together, the men pretending they couldn't tolerate each other and discussing theories for their cases, and the women talking about babies and clothes and life in general. Molly felt happy and at home, at last. She realised that living with Sherlock was not all that hard. He could still be a bit of an idiot sometimes but most of the time he kept to himself. She used to hear him playing at night. But it was okay. It helped her sleep. And she usually played her piano as well, sometimes late in the evening, and Sherlock never complained. Once or twice he had heard her and somehow he had caught the song. When that happened, Molly would smile and they would play the same melody, she upstairs in her room and Sherlock pacing back and forward in the living room.

As Molly had expected, sharing her days in his company had not made it easier to stop liking him the way she did. It made it worse. She always tried not to fill her head with silly fantasies but that was just asking for too much. Sherlock would go by the laboratory as well, whenever he needed anything, and now it was not even necessary to use up his charm to get what he wanted from her. They had become close. Molly would tell him about his day to day life, the stories she heard in the lab and Sherlock would share with her his ideas and cases. Sometimes she heard him scream to the walls. Other times he would just be sitting in what she learnt was his chair since she left in the morning, and would still be there when she came back, at night. What Molly didn't know was that, what she thought was Sherlock's chair, had indeed always been John's. Sherlock never tried to clear up the chair misunderstanding. Sometimes he didn't speak for days and that was okay. She needed time for herself as well. Once she had brought a date to the flat. The guy left ten minutes later, after Sherlock had scrutinized all about his life in seconds. He was not a good guy anyway, so instead of being upset, Molly had made that a regular thing. She was tired of losing time with morons and Sherlock was good a spotting them.

Clients would come in and out regularly; Sherlock would take some cases and refuse others. John would always help. Her life had never been so thrilling and interesting than now. Sherlock had shouted at her one time. She ran up the stairs to her room. It was the first time she actually was afraid of him. He came after her and apologised. It was an honest apology. It had never happened again since. Mrs. Hudson was happy, she was no longer their housekeeper, mostly due to Molly's tidiness and she usually had free meals every time Sherlock refused to make Molly company for dinner. She always cooked too much. Or at least, always enough for two.

A few days after Christmas Molly was putting the plastic Christmas tree down and removing all the decorations. Sherlock, by Molly's insistence, had agreed to have a small Christmas party. They had invited Mrs. Hudson, John and Mary but also Lestrade who, once more, was going to spend this season alone, after finally getting a divorce. Sherlock was in an unnatural good mood and Molly, with the help of Mary and Mrs. Hudson, had made a delicious dinner. They had eaten and chatted and when midnight stroke they had exchanged presents. Molly had received many nice things. Some earrings and a necklace, a dress she and Mary had once seen at a shop and she had loved, and also books. Sherlock had given her a few crime books, which she loved. She was forever thankful. Molly had given Sherlock a new accessory for his microscope. When Sherlock opened the present, getting away from everyone in the room, she followed him with her eyes. He had smiled and looked at her, muttering a thank you that only she could see. She smiled back.

They had stayed awake for a long time, even after everyone was gone, talking about stories of when they were kids. Sherlock didn't have many happy ones. Christmas was never a thing at Holmes' house and they had never had traditions. They had dinner together but the environment was so heavy that when he and Mycroft became independent they stopped gathering at all. Molly felt sorry for him, but then realised that it didn't make a difference for Sherlock.

Today was his birthday. The sixth of January. It was one of her days off, and when she woke up, an empty house received her. It was like that sometimes. Still, Sherlock had left a note. 'Mycroft asked me to meet him. Don't know when I'll be back. S.' Somehow he had learnt that Molly liked to be kept updated of his routine. Notes were a constant thing now, since she had called all their common friends and had the police looking for him, when he disappeared for two days to solve a case for an old acquaintance. Little did he know that Molly kept all his notes in a box on her wardrobe, as if they were a treasure.

Sherlock had refused to throw a party for his birthday. He said Christmas had been enough and he didn't like being remembered he was getting old. Molly had complied. It was his birthday after all, so it was his decision as well.

She put the tree in its box and took it downstairs. Mrs. Hudson had a spare room to keep this sort of things and Molly was thankful she let her use it. The tree was not heavy but she had to be careful and she took her time, avoiding a fall.

Sherlock was putting the rest of the Christmas decorations in the open box when Molly returned.

"Oh, hello. I didn't hear the door, I was downstairs." And asked. "Is everything okay with Mycroft?"

Sherlock smiled as she started packing some other things as well, still remains of the season.

"Yes. There was no case, just a happy birthday wish. I had told him it was not necessary, and he could easily have called. I suppose he is getting sentimental with age. His birthday is coming in a few days. I hope he does not expect me to return the favour."

"I think it was nice of him. Maybe he is trying to make peace with you."

Sherlock scoffed at the idea.

"Mycroft needs me. That's why he wants to keep me in a short leash. It's too late to solve whatever problems we always had."

Molly knew there was no use in debating that subject. She had tried once and Sherlock would not give in to her. He would say the less possible he could about it. Whatever problems he and his brother had he was not willing to share them. She picked up a present from the drawer of her desk and gave it to him.

"I know you said you did not want to celebrate your birthday, but I got you something." And she added, realising she hadn't said it yet. "Happy birthday, Sherlock."

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, putting red and silver balls inside the box. Molly sat on the floor as well facing him and stretched her arm. Sherlock took the present, wrapped in dark blue paper. He opened it carefully, trying not to rip the paper. Opening presents like an excited child was not something Sherlock was used to do. It was a book. Sherlock looked at the cover. Nightwatch, by Terrence Dickinson. It was an astronomy book. Sherlock passed his fingers through the cover and the back and looked at Molly. He smiled.

"Thank you. I guess I could use some of this."

"It's very interesting." She said." It teaches you a lot and you get to learn about constellations and such. I though you would like."

"I do." He was telling the truth. He had told Molly about many of his cases and he knew Molly read John's blog. That had been nice of her. He got on his knees and kissed her on the cheek. Molly couldn't suppress a look of surprise from flashing through her face. She placed her hand on her cheek, where he had kissed her. Sherlock had gotten up.

"I have something for you too. I forgot to buy it on Christmas and then I asked Mrs. Hudson for some help."

He passed her a very neat package. Molly got up as well and opened it. It was some new pyjamas. Just like his but a little more feminine. Involved on the pyjamas was a new copy of The Little Prince. Molly looked at him, not knowing what to say. Sherlock talked.

"I noticed you always keep it on your nightstand. So I assume you read it very regularly. The one your mum gave you. It will tear apart eventually, so I bought you a new copy. You can keep the other one and read this instead. To spare the other"

Molly smiled. It was so thoughtful of him. She was lost for words. She wondered when he had learnt all about things and feelings.

"Thank you." She managed to say eventually.

Sherlock looked her in the eyes and Molly felt like she was drowning in his. That was not okay. She was not supposed to fall even more in love with him. He was not supposed to be as nice for her as he was being all the time. She felt her heart sink. Sherlock looked away.

"Well, thanks a lot for the book." He said, clearing his throat and placing the book on his working table, next to the computer. "I will take this downstairs."

And leaving her there, sill on the floor, he picked up the box with all the accessories and left the room, getting away from Molly who stood there alone, catching her breath. More confused now than she had ever been.

0

Molly was working on her sewing machine, trying to fix Mrs. Hudson skirt when Sherlock came upstairs. Molly had heard the door from outside opening and closing again, so she knew he had left the apartment about half an hour ago, right after going downstairs to leave the box with al Christmas decorations.

Sherlock had gone for a long walk. He needed to think. There was something strange happening to him that he could not define and that made him angry. He was beginning to care too much for Molly and that was not okay. Since the Christmas party, after he and Molly had spent some time alone, talking about their past, he felt sorry for her. She had lost her mother at a quite young age and her father a few years ago. She was always dating idiots and Sherlock realised she was probably one of the loneliest people he knew, besides himself. Still, as strange as it may seem, she always seem to keep a cheered up attitude. Sherlock saw her doing things for others that made no sense, even people who disliked her, and she knew they disliked her. One time he had asked her why. She said her mother had always taught her that it is best to do good things for bad people than bad things. So it was that and the fact that she had trouble saying no. She was a good soul, not someone you would commonly find. Sherlock knew Molly had, in a way, taken John's place at the apartment, but he did not like what he was starting to feel towards her. He felt guilty if he was mean for her. He wanted her to be happy, as happy as possible.

He shook his head, turning to another street. He had to keep his feet on the ground and stop thinking about that. It was nothing. Moly was his friend, and a nice person, and he liked her. Just as he liked John and Mrs. Hudson. That was all.

Molly finished her job and got up as Sherlock removed his jacket.

"You're fixing Mrs. Hudson's skirt." It was an affirmation.

"Yes. She got it stuck on a piece of wood. But it's fine now. Just like new." And she smiled. "Do you want to try and use the machine?"

"The sewing machine?"

Molly nodded, laughing. Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't think so, Molly. Not really my area."

"Well, one tries." And she turned around. "Here. The hem of your trousers was coming off. I saw it when I picked it up at the dry cleaner. They're fixed now."

Sherlock got the clothes Molly gave him and thanked her. She was always so nice. It was starting to make him mad.

"Listen, Molly." He said. "You don't have to do this kind of things."

"I know." She said. She sensed a change in the air. His mood was not as nice as before. "But I want to. It keeps me busy. And it's no trouble at all."

"Stop being so nice!" He half shouted at her. "I don't have anything to give you in return, so stop it!"

Molly swallowed hard, trying to understand what it was that she had done wrong.

"I am sorry…"

"No, don't apologise!" The tone on his voice was even louder. He grabbed her arm and Molly tried to jerk away, with no success. "Why do you have to be so nice? How can you be so nice? People are despiteful! Don't you get sick?"

Molly took a deep breath and looked at him and then at her own arm. He was hurting her. He let her go and sighed, angry at her. Molly did not understand.

Sherlock turned around mumbling an apology and went to his room without an explanation, slamming the door behind him. Molly stood there for a while, trying to suppress her tears and also trying to figure out what it was that she had done wrong.

What she didn't understand, was that the reason Sherlock was so mad was because, for the first time in his life, he was having trouble in denying that also he may have started to have feelings for her.


	7. Chapter 7

A few hours later Molly had finished eating. She had left some food for Sherlock but she did not dare to call him. He had gone to his room and hasn't come out since. She felt bad, to be honest. She hadn't done anything wrong and suddenly he was treating her in that manner. Maybe he was just nervous with anything or maybe the conversation with Mycroft had in fact been a little heavier than what he had made her believe. Either way, Sherlock had no right to treat her like that. He wouldn't hear a word from her for a while, that would teach him.

She heard the door of his room opening, determined to keep up with her plan. Sherlock came to the kitchen. By the corner of her eye she saw he was wearing a somewhat guilty expression. He cleared his throat. Apologies weren't really his area either.

"I…Ehm… I was not fair a while ago. I was very…"

"Rude?" Molly helped, pretending to ignore him while she put the kettle on.

"Yes. Something like that." He waited for her reaction but realised she was playing hard to get. Very well, then. "I am sorry." He said.

The words came out of his mouth in a struggle.

"It's okay."

She made her own mug of tea and passed by him, not bothering to look at Sherlock. A look of confusion ran through his face and he frowned. She sat on her chair and picked a book to read.

"I said I was sorry." He repeated. He couldn't just say he was sorry to her and be ignored like that.

"I heard." Molly said, still indifferent.

Sherlock tried another approach.

"I have another trouser s that need sewing and I was thinking…"

"You had your chance to learn how to do it." Molly cut, before he finished.

Sherlock ruffled his hair. Okay, that wasn't working. But it always worked. When somebody needed help Molly would always be there to help. Sherlock looked to the desk where Molly kept her papers and saw the book he had given her that day. He had an idea.

He picked the book up and sat in what was now his chair, pulling it closer to Molly. She finally raised her eyes from the book. He talked.

"Listen, Moly. I am so sorry, I was not correct to you. I am a bit of an idiot sometimes."

"Yes, John had told me that."

"Well, he was right. I have trouble in controlling my bad mood sometimes. I am sorry."

He looked down, waiting for her to answer. She bit her lip.

"Okay. But I will not take that kind of things from you all the time, Sherlock. I am your friend and I am trying to relate with you in a regular manner, which isn't easy by the way, because you have the strangest of habits, and I don't think I deserve to get this in return. So next time you're about to explode I advise you to think a bit and get away before you talk to me like that. It was not nice and I don't understand what I did to deserve it."

Sherlock felt ashamed, once again.

"You did nothing. It was me. I am sorry." He apologised again. "Will you forgive me?"

Molly nodded. Of course she would forgive him. Didn't she always?

Sherlock passed her the book. The Little Prince. Molly accepted it, unsure of what he wanted. He leaned back on his chair and asked, smiling.

"Will you read it to me?"

Molly opened her big brown eyes in surprise but acquiesced. She put the mug down and her own book, placing a bookmark on the page she was reading. She then leaned back against the couch as well and started to read.

She had a nice voice. She would even make new voices for the different characters and Sherlock could see that she was almost reciting the book by heart. The pauses in the sentences, everything was so rhythmic. She would know exactly where to stop and what was coming next and what kind of intonation she should give to the sentence. It was not boring. And it was indeed a simple but nice story. Sherlock was not used to have stories read to him like that. Actually, now that he thought about it, nobody had ever read a story to him. Not his parents nor Mycroft. Life was not for fairy tales. He observed her and the forms her lips made as she was reading the words, like magic.

Suddenly, as Molly read the words, paying for the first time, more attention to the book than to him, Sherlock started noticing things he hadn't noticed before. That her nose curled up a little bit when she smiled and her lips usually curved down. That her cheekbones and nose were very sharp, giving her a sweet expression and a pretty face. Once again, he noticed how her eyelashes were huge, every time she batted them. That her eyebrows rose every time there was a particularly exciting passage in the book. She was beautiful.

Sherlock made a gesture and held Molly's hand. She stopped, looking at their hands together.

"You always play the same song." Sherlock said, not moving his gaze from her face.

"What?" She was having trouble in focusing on anything else than the warmth of his fingers on hers.

"When you play the piano. You always play the same song. Why?"

Molly looked at the book and closed it, marking the page with her own hand resting inside it. She took a deep breath.

"My mum used to play for me. All the songs I have upstairs are songs she used to play. Except for that one. I don't know why, but she never played that one for me. Maybe she thought it was too sad for a child, I have no idea. So, for me, it's easier to play that. It does not remind me so much of her."

Sherlock saw the fierce look in her eyes. Molly, trying to be strong. Molly, who pretended death did not affected her, who had chosen death to work with. But it did affect her. Her own mum, that had died many years ago, was still a burden she carried with her, a burden she had not been able to let go of.

"I am sorry." Sherlock managed to say. He was not very good at consoling people.

"It's okay. I'm fine with it."

Yes, Sherlock thought, she seemed to be. But the fact that she was fine with playing the same song on and on and on did not make it alright. Maybe it was time for him to make something for her.

"Can I continue with the book?" Molly asked, opening it again.

Sherlock nodded and reclined again on the chair, resting his hand by his side, letting go of Molly's. She started reading again, as if there had been no break, in the same mystic way. Sherlock closed his eyes to hear it all.

When Molly finished the book it was late. The stars outside shone bright and the light of the street lamp came through the window. She looked at Sherlock, waiting for a reaction. He had fallen asleep. Molly smiled, closing the book. She got up and, grabbing a blanket that was lying nearby, she covered Sherlock, tucking him in, so that he wouldn't feel cold. She hesitated. Then she leaned down and gave him a kiss, only slightly touching his cheek.

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock." She whispered.

Then, taking one last look at him, she held the book in her arms and went up the stairs, the same smile dancing on her lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes, hearing her pacing up the stairs. He touched his cheek, where she had kissed him, with his own hand. He smiled, remembering the way his name sounded when she was the one pronouncing it. Happy birthday, she had said. He couldn't have imagined a happier one.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock stood there, sitting on the chair, tucked in the blanket until the first rays of sun came through the window, replacing the light of the street lamps. The blanket smelled like Molly and it was nice. He had tried to fall asleep but with no use, he would eventually wake up again. Too many things were twirling around in his head. He did not particularly like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. The way Molly smiled and how she used to look at her own feet when she walked. How she always warmed up her hands on her mug of tea. She always had black tea with milk and sugar. Her favourite flowers were sunflowers and she used to buy them regularly. She slept with socks and was never barefoot when inside the house. She liked her toast with butter and ham and always ate the crust first, biting around the slice of bread. Sometimes she read until she fell asleep on the couch and would wake up hours later with a gasp, scared and surprised she was still in the same place, and with her neck hurt. She also liked to look out the window at the stars and just stay there for hours, without saying a word, lost in her own thoughts.

What troubled him the most was how he remembered all this things. He was an observer, but he did not keep record of things that were not important. Except for Molly. Those things just popped up to his head and he didn't even need to rationalise it. That made him angry; controlling his emotions was his job and it started to become hard with Molly around.

He remembered the kiss she had given him the day before and the words. "Happy Birthday, Sherlock." He smiled, closing his eyes. 'No, stop it!' he thought, opening his eyes again. He needed to do something, anything. He got up, pushing the blanket aside. The book she had left, half-read, was still placed on the table next to his… well, her chair now. "Love in the time of Cholera." He picked it up and opened it up in a random page. There, a single sentence she had underlined, meaning she had read the book more than once: "He would wake for no reason in the middle of the night, and the memory of the self-absorbed love was revealed to him for what it was: a pitfall of happiness that he despised and desired at the same time, but from which it was impossible to escape." Sherlock closed the book fast, looking at the wall in front of him, eyes wide open.

Molly footsteps entered the room and she asked.

"Not a good passage?"

Sherlock turned around, still too astounded to answer. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, I was just checking on the book. It's… I never read it."

"Oh, it's beautiful!" She exclaimed, a big smile spreading on her face. "It's about a kid that falls in love with a girl and he promises he will wait for her until they are old enough to get married. But she marries someone else and then she kind of refuses him. But he waits for her. When her husband died, the kid - now a man - knocks on her door, saying he came to keep the promise he had made her."

Sherlock could tell she was exited as she was talking about the book. The tone on her voice was passionate. Molly stopped, smiling.

"Sorry, you would probably hate it."

"No, it's… fine." Sherlock said. He placed the book back where it was, over the table, and Molly went to the kitchen to make her breakfast. She picked two mugs and two plates and put the kettle on.

Sherlock looked at her, filling up the mugs with water and milk and spreading jam on the toasts that were meant for him and butter and ham on those for her. She looked up and smiled.

"Breakfast's ready. I will leave in a bit for work… Haven't you changed to sleep?"

She had noticed his wrinkled clothes, the same he was wearing when she left him the night before.

"I wasn't feeling sleepy." That's all he said. He then turned around and left to his room.

Strange, Molly thought. She sat at the kitchen table and had her breakfast, thinking about all the things she would have to do at the lab, things she hadn't done during that week and were accumulating. It would be a long day.

She was all dressed up for work and came down the stairs, putting on her coat and picking up her purse. Sherlock was on the phone and hung up when she picked up her purse. He started pacing from side to side.

"Is anything the matter?" She asked.

"Lestrade has a case for me." Sherlock answered. "I just called John but he is already working and he can't leave the practise right now and I…Ah!" He stopped, taking a deep breath and looking at Molly. "Yes, yes!" He smiled.

Molly looked at him, trying to figure out the look of happiness in his face. He grabbed her by the arms.

"You!" he said.

Molly looked at him, puzzled.

"Me? What?"

"You can come with me! To the crime scene! I need a partner and you are just perfect."

Molly, ignoring the compliment, just shook her head.

"No, Sherlock, I can't. I have to work, I have lots of paperwork to take care of and…"

"That can wait!" He affirmed, putting on his coat. "There's a crime! Adieu boredom! Let's go Molly!"

And he stormed out of the apartment and down the stairs, tying his scarf around the neck. Molly rolled her eyes and, knowing when to acknowledge defeat, followed him out of the apartment, not sure if she should be bothered or relieved that the paperwork would have to wait a few more hours.


	9. Chapter 9

Molly followed Sherlock out of the taxi, not sure what she was supposed to do there with him. She had never been to a crime scene before. Her job was at the morgue, sometimes at the lab, especially when Sherlock asked for her help. A few police cars were parked there and the perimeter was surrounded by some yellow crime scene tape. She could hear many voices here and there, talking at the same time with each other and to walkie talkies. It was a sunny but windy day and Molly buttoned up her coat.

Agent Donovan was there and looked at Sherlock from head to toe as she saw him raising the yellow tape so Molly could cross to the other side. She didn't say anything, though, and let them both pass, following them with her gaze.

Sherlock looked at Molly when he noticed she had slowed down and she hurried up behind him. He approached inspector Lestrade, who had his back turned to the road. There was a car parked on the side of the street, next to an enormous, but old, house.

"Lestrade." Sherlock said, pulling the collars of his coat up. Molly had noticed he always did that when trying to play distant and mysterious. She supressed a smile.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're here." And the inspector looked at Molly. "No John today?"

"No, he couldn't, he was busy. I brought Molly with me."

"Very well." The inspector acquiesced. "We have got a case here. Two bodies. A young woman and a young man. They were 23 and 24 years old, from their identity cards. Killed with an axe."

"What is the problem?" Sherlock asked. Molly looked at him, flinching at the words inspector Lestrade had pronounced.

"No fingerprints. No reason for them to be killed. He was attached from behind; she was attached from the front. No weapon next to any of the bodies, but we found the possible weapon on the back of the house, they have a small wood shack with tools. There was an axe there that was most likely the crime weapon, based on the wounds, though there is no blood on it. The guy was fallen by the side of the car, she was inside the house, fallen on the floor next to the couch. Big, old, apparently abandoned house, electricity is still working, though; new phone, functioning as well and there were three bottles of water in the living room. That's all we have."

"The bodies?"

"Forensic team took them. You have the marks on the floor to guide you. A call was made from this house at midnight, to the girl's sister. We talked to her but she was quite distressed, so we couldn't get much from her. Apparently they had a problem with the car when they tried to go home and the girl called the sister to come and help her up. That's her car there."

Lestrade pointed to a car parked outside, a few meters away from the house. Sherlock looked at the street. They were at a remote place, away from main streets, and it was mostly made of macadam and dust. Sherlock approached the victims' car, looking inside. He asked.

"Where did the victims called from?"

"The house." Lestrade answered.

"No. I mean, cell phone or landline?"

"Landline."

"They had cell phones, why would they call from the landline?" Sherlock opened the door of the car, picked up the phones and checked the balance. Plenty of money and network. "It makes no sense. Can I talk to the sister?"

"She went to the hospital. She was in shock. It was she who found the bodies."

Sherlock opened the hood of the car and closed it again. Then he proceeded to examine the whole front of the car, picking his magnifying glass.

"He was fixing the car." He said and took a closer look. "Whoever attacked him closed the hood. They were wearing gloves, that's why there are no fingerprints. But there's this."

Sherlock picked up a single string of wool. It was so tiny that Molly was impressed how he had seen it, but then she remembered he had the magnifying glass. Sherlock grabbed a small zip bag from his pocket and put the piece of wool there. It was dark blue.

He then opened the hood of the car and looked at the engine.

"Ran out of battery?"

Inspector Lestrade nodded.

"Yes. We suppose they must have left the radio turned on."

Sherlock paced away from him and Molly, examining the street floor again very carefully. He then looked at the car and at the house.

"Molly?" he called. Molly looked at him. "Open the trunk, please."

Molly did as he said, looking at Inspector Lestrade, as if apologising for following Sherlock's demands.

"What's in there?" Sherlock asked.

"A big, brown blanket." Molly said. "Some tissues… and…" Molly stopped, looking at the trunk and blushing.

"And?" Sherlock insisted.

"Quite a few boxes of condoms." She answered, embarrassed. And added, understanding crossing her face. "Oh, they came here to snog!"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked up at her.

"Snog?!" he asked, frowning.

"Yes." Molly explained. "You know, cuddle and kiss and… other things."

"I know what snogging means, thank you, Molly."

"Oh, okay." She answered, blushing more than ever.

Inspector Lestrade was looking from one to the other, half smiling.

"So," Sherlock proceeded. "They come here to…snog. Not in the car, no. In the house. It's practically abandoned, but has electricity. You said three bottles of water; that must have been something they brought here, so they knew nobody came to the house anymore, and it's obviously not the first time they came here, which explains the bottles of water again. They left the house to go home; they put the blanket and the tissues in the car again. They try to start the car but it doesn't work. Ran out of battery." Sherlock stopped, thinking. "But why would the car run out of battery? It might have been the radio, but if they went inside why would they let the radio playing here?"

"Maybe they were too absorbed in what they were doing?" Molly suggested.

Sherlock looked at her, in the eyes. They were shinning. It was amazing how her eyes, with the light of the day, shone in so many different colours. He closed his eyes. Focus, Sherlock.

"Okay. So they go inside and the battery dies. Obviously they don't know why the car doesn't work so he tries to see what he can do. The girl goes inside to call someone to help her out. The question is, why not use their cell phones. Why use the landline?"

There was something off, right there. And it wasn't just that. Why were the phones in the car, placed on top of the passenger's sit? Wouldn't they carry the phones inside with them, in their pockets?

Lestrade shook his head. He had no idea either.

Sherlock turned around.

"I want to see the house and the shack on the back, where the axe is."

Lestrade led the way and Sherlock and Molly followed him. Sherlock asked her.

"So, what do you think?"

"I think this is all very strange. I mean, if someone wanted to kill them, they probably knew they would be here. If they always came here. Unless they made it a secret. And their car is just like one my dad had. When you take the key out of the ignition the radio stops. By itself. Why would they turn it on again if they were coming inside? Unless they were snogging in the car listening to the music to provide a certain mood, then they would be playing the radio without the key in the ignition. I don't think they would have the lights on, they were trying to be discreet, I suppose."

She was saying all those things and Sherlock was listening attentively. The points Molly was making were valid.

"The question is." She continued. "Who would have a reason to kill them? And why? And doesn't this all seem, I don't know, a very good opportunity to kill them both? If they were together it would mean a little bit more of struggle. With them apart then it would be possible to kill one and then the other, so…"

Yes. Molly was right. Lestrade opened the door and they walked in. The house was quite filled with furniture. In the hall there was a small table with a phone. A new phone, months old. There was a chair as well next to the table. They followed down a corridor and turned left, entering the living room. There were many cabinets, empty. An old couch was almost in the middle of the living room, with a few pillows. There were old and empty vases in every corner and empty jars on top of every piece of furniture. A small radio was on the side, an old one. The light from outside came through the window, spreading pieces of dust all over. The floor, though, was more or less cleaned.

Sherlock left Molly and inspector Lestrade behind and paced through the house. He went through the kitchen and saw a door, on the back. It was not locked. He opened and closed it, trying out for noises. There was a small screech. He called Molly.

"There's a door on the back. Open it and close it."

Molly went away and did as he said. Sherlock could hear the sound coming from the door perfectly. He saw the marks of the fallen body in the middle of the floor, between the couch and a table. He tried to imagine what the victim might have seen. If she was looking at the back of the house was because she had heard the door, otherwise she would be looking in front. She had come inside to wait. So, if she had heard the back door opening and had turned around and the assassin had come from there, why didn't she try to run? Unless… He paced out of the house through the back door. Lestrade followed him as he walked, fast.

"Is that the shack?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, that's where we found the axe."

He entered the shack, silently. There, placed on a piece of wood, was the axe. He picked it up an examined it. The wood was… slightly wet.

"Someone cleaned the axe."

"What? Clean…"

"Yes. Whoever killed them cleaned the axe. The wood is slightly wet, so it was washed."

He came out of the house, looking at the floor.

"The footsteps were cleared as well. Whoever walked through here was clearing them as they moved, you can see the earth all churned. So it's impossible to check for footprints…"

He followed the trail up to the front of the house and to the road. There were fields around the house and bushes, trees. Many and many bushes. Nice places to hide. He was looking now for another trail. The girl had been killed from the front, the guy from behind. Why? And why hadn't she tried to run? Why did she stay inside after making the call? Maybe that had been his idea, but why his idea? There was something coming to the surface of Sherlock's mind but he couldn't quite put the finger on it. Why would the boyfriend let the girlfriend stay inside while he was outside fixing the car? Sherlock stopped, looking up. Maybe Molly could help in this one. She surely knew better about relationships than him. He looked around.

"Where's Molly?" He asked Lestrade.

The Detective Inspector looked around as well, trying to answer Sherlock's question.

"I don't know." He said. "She went to the back of the house when you told her to and I haven't seen her since."

Sherlock paced back to the house again, this time through the front door. He pushed agent Donovan, who was at the door talking with a colleague to the side, roughly, and passed. He ran through the entire house, upstairs and down again, through the kitchen and back to the shack.

"Molly?" He shouted.

He came out again, facing the police officers who were still there. Lestrade came out the house, following him.

"Has anybody seen Molly?" He asked, and many inquisitive faces turned to him. "A young woman, light brown hair, long, tied in a ponytail. About this tall." He made the gesture, indicating where the top of her head would be next to him. "She was wearing a blue jacket and jeans, flat brown shoes."

All heads shook from side to side, a negative answer.

His heart started pacing. He went through the house again, leaving an irresponsive Inspector Lestrade there and came out again, looking all the way. He stopped in front of the Inspector.

"She's gone."

Inspector Lestrade saw something on Sherlock's face he had never seen before. Fear. Panic. The face of a man who had lost someone important. The same expression he saw on families whose kids, friends, boyfriends and girlfriends were missing, not knowing if they would return, be found, alive or death. An expression he never thought he would see on that high functioning sociopath. The face of someone who cared.

"Get everyone!" Sherlock demanded. "We have to find her!"

And he himself darted away, even before Lestrade had had the time to put everyone looking for the pathologist.

Sherlock tried to calm his heart rate as he looked around, moving as fast as he could. 'Stop it!" he would demand to himself. She is fine, she is fine. He repeated the same words on and on and on again. There was no use to it. For the first time his heart would not do what he demanded, but instead, what it wanted.


	10. Chapter 10

While inspector Lestrade was still giving orders to search the perimeter, Sherlock went back, through the back of the house. He searched next to the door Molly had been opening and closing by his demand, to allow him to check how much of the noise was heard in the living room. He looked at the ground, descending the three small steps made of concrete. There, on the ground, the earth was also churned. He looked at the trail. It went back, passed right in front of the shack and then got lost next to the huge bushes that surrounded the house. Sherlock looked at the bushes, searching. There, concealed by all the vegetation was a small gap. The vegetation was not so thick, allowing an adult to pass through there to the woods. Sherlock pushed the bushes apart with his arms and stepped on the other side. He was now in the woods that surrounded the house again. He paced, looking around. Vegetation, trees and bushes. A few meters away from the main fence of bushes that surrounded the house he heard something. He ran to it. There on the floor, behind a big bush, with her head between her hands, was Molly.

"Molly!"

Sherlock shouted and got closer, kneeling beside her. He held her in his arms, relieved.

Molly felt herself being pushed against his chest and relaxed for a bit. He smelled good. A mixture of grass and soap. His arms were tight around her body and it was comfortable and warm.

Sherlock could feel her hair against his face. He gazed at her, into her eyes. Little bits of dust were hanging from her eyelashes, probably from being lying on the floor. Her pupils had the same size, so she should be fine.

"Are you okay?" He asked, worried. "What happened?"

"I don't know." She said. She stopped for a while, focusing and trying to remember. "I was holding the door on the back, opening and closing it and then… it was all black. Then I woke up and was here."

"Someone hit you." Sherlock affirmed. He got up and looked around. "But who?"

He kneeled down again next to her.

"Can you walk?"

"I am not sure." She said.

Sherlock held her by the waist and helped her up. Her legs were shaking too much, mostly because of the shock. All of her was shaking, in truth.

"We need to take you to the hospital." He took a look at the back of her head, removing the hair tied on a ponytail to the sides, checking for an injury. Molly felt that the hair on her neck prickled up and closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of his hand against her bare skin and trying to control the beating of her heart. She started shaking even more, supporting herself on his shoulder to remain as steady as possible. Sherlock noted that she shivered when his hand came in contact with her skin and a barely noticeable smirk crossed his lips.

"There is no bleeding, no injury, at least on the surface. Still, we better play it safe."

He looked around. She wouldn't be able to walk very fast taking by the way she was shaking. He looked at her.

"I'll carry you."

And, most gently, he picked her up, holding her by her back and by the back of her knees.

"Hold on to my shoulder, I don't want to let you fall."

And so did Molly. Sherlock walked back to the opening in the fence. Going around the house and to the front would take too long. It was a big field and a big fence surrounding the house. He moved the bushes to the side with his shoulders and back, trying to avoid them hitting Molly's face. When they got to the front, walking on the main road he could see inspector Lestrade still shouting orders to the walkie talkie and many agents looking in the fields around the house.

Lestrade stopped talking when he saw them. He then grabbed his own phone and called an ambulance. Sherlock was carrying her, it had to be serious. He paced fast and approached them, looking at Molly.

"How is she?" He asked.

Sherlock stopped next to the inspector's car.

"She'll be okay, just a bit shaken up. I believe she was hit on the back of her head. I don't know yet by whom."

"I called an ambulance already." Lestrade informed. The answer Sherlock had given him showed he wanted no questions for the moment, and the inspector understood.

"Thank you." Sherlock said.

He put Molly down, carefully. But he didn't let go of her. He talked to her. She still seemed a bit confuse.

"Are you feeling dizzy or nauseated?"

"No." Molly answered. "Just a little bit tired. My head hurts."

Sherlock tried to sooth her, rubbing his hand on her shoulder to keep her warm. He held her closer.

"Talk to me." He said.

Molly placed her head on his chest, trying to remember anything. But the closeness, his hand rubbing her arm, the way he held her, not allowing her to get away, was not helping. Her legs were still shaking but she was now sure it had nothing to do with the blow to the head, but it was indeed because of all this proximity.

Inspector Lestrade pointed the police car to Sherlock, a silent question, inquiring if he would like to sit and let Molly sit as well. Sherlock shook his head. They would stay where they were. Lestrade got away, leaving them alone, giving orders to the walkie talkie so his men would stop the search.

Molly started talking.

"I remember a smell. Before I fainted."

"What smell?" Sherlock asked, looking at the horizon. He was now having trouble focusing on what she was saying, as much as he wanted to understand. She had placed a hand on his chest and that felt good, warm. He realised now he had never been this close to anyone. Her hair smelled of pomegranate. It was nice.

"It was strange. Disinfectant. Alcohol."

"You didn't hear anything?"

"No. I could hear you and Lestrade talking and then there was this smell, and then… nothing."

Sherlock nodded.

"It's okay. We can start with that." He wanted to calm her down, to assure her that he would solve the case. Still, he had no idea how. Why would anyone hit Molly? And drag her to the woods and leave her there? It had to be someone who knew the house well; he himself would have missed the opening in the bushes if he wasn't looking.

"Feeling better?" He asked, looking down at her. She looked up and smiled.

"A little bit, yes. My legs are still a little bit shaky, though."

She blushed. Sherlock pushed her against him once more, though she hadn't moved an inch, and allowed himself to rest his chin on top of her head, barely making any pressure. It stood perfectly placed there. Molly rested her cheek on his chest again and he smiled. For all he knew, the ambulance might never arrive, he wouldn't mind. He frowned. What was he thinking? That was nonsense.

Still, when the ambulance arrived ten minutes later, neither of them had bothered to move.


	11. Chapter 11

Despite the insistence of Inspector Lestrade for Sherlock to stay in the crime scene, the consulting detective refused. An annoyed Lestrade saw him and Molly get in the ambulance and leave, knowing there was nothing he could do.

He gave some orders to his men who were still at the crime scene and decided that the best was to follow them to the hospital as well. The victim's sister had been directed there as well, so maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. The inspector took his own car and explained what he was going to do to Agent Donovan. The look of disapproval on her face said how much she thought it had been a bad idea to call Sherlock again. Still, knowing there was no use in it, she had refrain from any comments. In her opinion inspector Lestrade still trusted Sherlock too much, but he was still her boss, so there was nothing she could do.

Inspector Lestrade met Sherlock in the waiting room as soon as he got to the hospital.

"So, how's Molly?" He asked.

"They said they were going to take a CT brain scan, just to make sure everything is okay."

"So, do you have anything from the crime scene? Any idea of what might have happened?"

Sherlock looked at the end of the corridor. There, at the front desk, was Molly. He had no idea what she was doing there. He left inspector Lestrade and walked in her direction. He pulled her by the shoulder. Molly turned around and looked at him, frowning. It wasn't Molly.

"Oh, I am sorry. I thought you were someone I know." He apologised.

The girl was about to speak but Inspector Lestrade interrupted.

"Oh, this is Miss Janet Brown, the sister of Miss Christine Brown, the victim."

Sherlock looked at her from head to toe. Despite the similarities when with her back turned to him she could never have been Molly. Dark blue eyes and a round face. Not a friendly one.

"Where did you find your sister?" He asked, right away. Sherlock was not a man who knew to say how sorry he was for her loss.

"I didn't." She answered. "Who are you?"

Inspector Lestrade decided to intervene.

"I am sorry, this is Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. He is helping on your sister's case."

"Oh." That's all she said. She looked at Sherlock from head to toe. She then decided to continue.

"When I got to the front of the house I saw Louis lying down on the floor, covered in…" Her voice broke. She composed herself. "He was dead. I just called 999."

"Does he and your sister go to that place regularly?"

"I don't know. I suppose so."

"How did you know where to get her when she called you saying she had trouble with the car?"

"That's a family house. It was left to the family when our grandmother died, but no one wants to sell it or rebuild it. We use it for parties sometimes."

"That's why you keep the electricity still working?"

"Yes." The girl swallowed, fighting back the tears. "We use the house sometimes, when we need. She called me saying they had a problem with the car; she said something about the battery so I went to meet them there. I…She was my only sister and I don't know who would have done something like this to her… I just want the police to find the culprit." She stopped, unable to proceed.

Sherlock gazed at her.

"How well did you know her boyfriend?"

"Louis? They went to University together. He used to come by the house sometimes. He was a nice guy."

"Did they have any enemies, anyone who might have wanted to hurt them?"

She thought for a while. Then she shook her head.

"I can't think of anyone."

"You were very close to your sister?"

"Close as two sisters can be. I mean, we were annoyed by each other, but of course we loved each other."

"Do you have any picture of her? I didn't have the chance to see her yet."

"Yes, sure." The girl opened the wallet and took a picture from it. The picture showed four people. Herself, what Sherlock supposed was her sister – their features were very similar – and two other men. For the way they were in the picture - a man on each side and the girls in the middle - Sherlock knew that it was the girls and their respective boyfriends. Something on the picture caught Sherlock's eye but he kept it to himself.

"Thank you." He said. "I will check on your sister now."

And without further explanation he paced away. Inspector Lestrade apologised to the girl and went after him. Sherlock turned around, holding a door.

"Don't leave her alone and don't let her go home." He said, pointing at the girl with his head.

"Why not?"

"Just do as I say."

"Sherlock, can't you just for once explain what you mean? Why shouldn't I leave her?"

"Just do as I say. I want do one more things before I give you my conclusions. Don't let her go."

He opened the door and walked into the hospital. He wanted to see the bodies.

As he got close to the morgue he bumped into someone on a corner.

"Molly!"

The pathologist had her results and was so surprised to see him as he was to see her.

"Where were you headed?"

"The morgue." He explained. "How are the results?"

"Perfectly normal. Luckily it was nothing serious. I can get back to my normal life and should only call if anything strange happens."

"Good." He said.

Molly looked at him, remembering the proximity they unfortunately had to break as soon as they got to the hospital.

"Are you coming with me, then?"

"To see dead bodies? Yeah, I can't get enough of those." She joked.

Sherlock smiled and they paced side by side. As they approached the door of the morgue Molly left her CT scan results fall and kneeled down to get them. She was still with her back turned to the door when a young man came out of the morgue, passing by Sherlock. Sherlock sensed a strange smell. Disinfectant.

"Hey, Janet!" The young man called.

Molly turned around. A look of horror crossed the man's eye and before anyone could react he started to sprint, making Molly fall on the way. Sherlock helped her get up very quickly and followed him, running as fast as he could. The man was indeed a good runner. Sherlock was almost hit with the swing door as he continued to chase the guy into the waiting room. A little girl passed in front of the man and he slowed down instinctively, avoiding knocking her down. Sherlock took his chance and sprinted forward, grabbing the man from his shirt and throwing him on the floor. He punched him in the face.

Lestrade, who was waiting with Janet Brown in the waiting room, saw the scene developing in front of him. As soon as he recovered from the shock he approached Sherlock and got him away from the man, who had a bleeding nose and had stopped struggling.

"Was that really necessary?" The inspector asked Sherlock.

A whole crowd had gathered around them. Molly, who followed the two man as fast as she could stopped, looking at the scene as well.

"Yes, it was." Sherlock said, getting up and composing himself, straightening his jacket. "That was the man who hit Molly. And that," He said pointing at Janet Brown "is the murderer you are looking for."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and at the girl, who had stopped in her place, unable to move with the shock. Before she could think of running, Sherlock grabbed the man on the floor.

"Arrest her. I'll explain everything at Scotland Yard."

Inspect Lestrade held the girl, unsure. That was a very bizarre scene; Sherlock had better know what he was saying. He had made a fool of himself because of him way too many times.

0

Molly and Sherlock followed Lestrade to the police station. The inspector had called for some reinforcement at the hospital and Agent Donovan had appeared. All of them got into the office. Lestrade knew he would be in a hell of a problem if Sherlock didn't have a good explanation. The young man's nose had stopped bleeding but looked terrible. He looked scared when the inspector asked him and the victim's sister to sit down.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, as an order to spill all he had to say about the case. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"When I looked at the crime scene today there was one thing that caught my attention right away." He turned to Lestrade. "You pointed out the car of the victim's sister as I arrived to the scene and the victim's car. I found it quite strange that her car was parked so far away from the victim's car. Why? Why would she slow down and park the car so far away if she was coming to the house to help them out? Even if she saw the man on the floor, she would want to get as close as possible to him to help as fast as possible. But no, the car was far away. Another thing that caught my attention was the marks of the wheels on the pavement. That is the main street, a deserted area, not many cars pass by. Still, there were three trails of the same wheel on the ground, two of them disappeared on the corner of the house. Of your car." Sherlock said, pointing at the girl. She was looking at him with a defiant expression. "Now, why three marks? I couldn't make that out until I found out two more things. The murderer had to be someone the girl knew. She had been killed by the front. She was looking at the murderer when she died. She fell on the floor with her back to it, away from the couch. So, she was looking at the back of the house. That means she must have heard something. Still, she didn't run away. So, the victim knew the murderer, no doubt about it. Then we moved on to check the shack, to check on the possible weapon. The wounds on both victims showed it was an axe. But the axe on the shack had no blood, something that was easily explained by the wood of the handle that was not completely dried. Someone had cleaned the weapon of the crime." He started pacing, explaining things even faster than usual. "So, that finally explained the marks of the car's wheels! You." He said, pointing at the young woman. "You came to help your sister when she called you. Now why did your sister call from a landline? Why didn't she have her cell phone? Well, I may be wrong, but the young couple spent some time at your place before leaving for the mansion. You stole their phones and they didn't even notice. You wanted them to have a reason to be separated. It was your sister's car, from what I could see. Yes, because you both have a lot of money – or better, your father does. So, you stole their cell phones, you knew they were going to that house to get intimate; you grab the substitute keys, go to the house while they are inside, and you turn the radio on. The car battery dies. You hid in the field behind the house, concealing yourself and your car and wait for you sister to call you. She finally does. That phone hasn't been in that house for a long time, it's a new phone and I am sure it was your idea to install it, in case anything should happen. The back door makes a noise when you walked in, coming from the woods so your sister's boyfriend won't see you, but your sister isn't scared. She knows it's you. You carry an axe that you conceal behind your back and then you stab her with it. She falls on the floor. You look out; your sister's boyfriend is trying to figure out what is wrong with car. How could it be the battery if they didn't forget the radio on and they had never turned on the lights, since they wanted discretion? It's the perfect opportunity! You stab him with the same axe from the back and you let him laying down on the floor and leave. But before you leave you close the hood of the car and you leave the cell phones placed on the passenger's sit. You don't want the police to find them in your possession. You go home; you change your clothes and clean the mess. You had gloves, yes! Some dark blue gloves your ex-boyfriend that is sitting there next to you was wearing on that picture you showed me. He was supposed to help you but he must have chickened out at the last minute, or maybe he realised you would never came back to him anyway, so this all crime thing would not pay off! So you had to do everything all by yourself. And you took his gloves, so if the police found any clue they would be redirected to him. Actually, I think you made sure than would happen. You brought the weapon of the crime back because you knew people would look for it. But there was more than one weapon. Your ex had the other one. But, like I said before, he never showed up. Still he realises he has to take the weapon to the house again before the police comes to interrogate him about the murder. He was a friend of the victims, so it was probable that the police would ask him some questions. So he goes back to the shack through the field on the back of the house and there's something strange. He sees you! He sees you holding a door, opening and closing it. And he gets confused! What are you doing again at the scene of the crime? So he just decides to knock you out. The problem is that, it was not you! It was Molly here." He pointed out at Molly, who looked more confused than ever. "The resemblance between the two of you when you have your back turned is amazing. The hair, the body structure. You do look the same. So when your friend here realised his mistake he just left Molly lying on the woods, took the axe back to the shack and left. When I went to the shack the first time with inspector Lestrade there was only one axe. When I returned to look for Molly there were two. That was obviously the weapon you used to knock Molly out. And now you must be wondering how I know it was you." Sherlock asked, looking at the man but not expecting an answer. "You have and OCD. It's obvious by the way you move around people. Molly said the only think she could use as a reference for her attacker was a strange smell of disinfectant. You were disinfecting your hands when you left the morgue and you saw Molly from her back. You shouted Miss Janet's name. You had been mistaken again. The panic on your face when you saw that it was not Janet but the woman you had just attacked confirmed my suspicion."

Sherlock shut up and looked up at Lestrade, who was now frowning. His explanation made sense, even though they would have to check a few things: the two axes, for example, was one of those things.

"That's nonsense." The girl said. "What reason would I have to kill my sister?"

Sherlock looked her in the eyes.

"Money. It was all about money. Younger sister, always put aside, never the best at anything. Your older sister was lucky about everything. Your mother died…"

"How can you possibly know her mother died?" This time it was Lestrade that asked.

"When I checked her sister's phone for money and network there was a number with the name 'Father' on it. There was no 'Mother'."

Lestrade nodded, accepting the explanation.

"So, you were jealous of your sister. But you also thought you deserved to have it all for yourself, and you hate everyone. So you decide you have to kill your sister and I am sure your father was next on the list. You see, the only picture you had in your wallet apart from the one you showed me was of your mother. You had ripped your father of that photo. That says a lot about how you feel about him. And we shouldn't forget the fact you take drugs. That takes money. So, if you put your sister out of the picture and right after your father, you would be the only heir. Life would finally be fair to you."

The look on the man's face, whose nose had finally stopped bleeding, and the slight nod he gave with his head, said all Sherlock needed to know his assumptions were right.

The girl would not confess so easily but with the piece of glove Sherlock had found in the hood of the car, the trail of her car and the guy's testimonial, inspector Lestrade had certainly a case on his hands. With luck they would find any other evidence

Lestrade thanked Sherlock for his help. He said he might need his collaboration on the same case again and Sherlock had agreed. Then the inspector said his goodbyes to him and Molly.

Sherlock stopped on the pavement.

"I have a question." He said to Molly, as he signalled to a taxi. Both of them got in and after Sherlock gave the address the taxi drove away. "Why were they separated? Why was the girl inside and the guy outside?"

Molly smiled.

"He probably didn't want her to be cold. So he tried to fix the car while she was comfortable and warm inside the house."

"That's just it?" It was difficult for Sherlock to accept that that was the explanation.

"Yes, that's just probably it. That's what people do when they like someone, Sherlock. They forget themselves."

He looked at her and she felt her heart start to race. His green eyes were so deep and yet, they showed so little. He smiled. The simple explanation Molly had given him was something Sherlock would never understand. But, as the taxi approached 221B, he realised he had just punched a guy because he had hurt Molly. To his own frustration, maybe he understood it better than he was willing to admit.


	12. Chapter 12

Even though Sherlock had insisted with her not to, Molly had decided to go to work the next day. Her head ached only slightly and after a few hours of sleep the pain went away completely. At least the pain inside. The back of her head, where the axe handle had hit, was still sore and would take a few days for the pain to go away completely. Still, she knew she would be fine and to miss work two days in a row was not something Molly liked to do. She knew her boss would not be upset with her, but still there was no need for it. She had slept well. For several times during the night she had heard the door of her room opening. It had always been Sherlock, who would call her name gently, and would go away as soon as she answered. It was normal procedure when someone had a concussion but still she couldn't help but thinking it was sweet of him to worry about her. Sherlock hadn't acted much like himself the last couple of weeks, and somehow Molly felt that she was opening a few cracks in his armour. Not many, though. Unlike her he had never really opened to her about his family. She was aware his relationship with his brother, Mycroft, was not the best one, but knew no other details about it. And she didn't feel confident enough to ask. She had the feeling Sherlock would talk about it if he was and when he was ready.

Molly walked into the morgue looking for her cell phone in her purse. She couldn't find it and it would not be the first time she would have left it at home. Always so clumsy and forgetful! Sherlock had come to her room that morning before he left to talk with Inspector Lestrade, making sure again she was alright and asking her if there was anything she needed. He had woken her up and apologised but she lied, saying she was about to get up anyway. She assured him she was okay and he left then. She had looked at the clock. It was so early! She wondered if the inspector himself would be at Scotland Yard already. But, since it was no use in trying to sleep again she got up, took a shower and got dressed, made some tea and toasts, read a bit and then picked up her purse and left the apartment, still putting her coat on. She didn't remember putting the cell phone in the purse. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on her room. Yes, she had left it there, on the night stand.

As she kept her eyes closed to visualise her room, Molly did not realise someone was also distracted, coming in the other direction. She bumped into the person, letting her purse fall and heard a crack. A cell phone had fallen on the floor and the battery and back cover had been removed with the fall. She picked up the phone and her purse, apologising.

"Oh, I am so sorry. What a clutz I am!"

She looked up. The young man that looked at her was smiling.

"It's okay, I was a bit distracted by the phone, to be honest. I didn't see you."

Molly put the pieces of the phone together. It was an old model.

"Here. I think I fixed it. Pease make sure it works." She asked, an apologetic look on her face.

The man turned it on. It was as good as new.

"It works!" He said. "That's the good thing about these old models. Nothing can break them."

"Yes, that's true." Molly agreed.

The man looked at her, still smiling. He had light brown eyes and light hair, which he had parted to the side. He had a dimple on his chin that gave him a childish look and some freckles on his pale skin. His smile was as warm as a summer's day. Molly realised she had been looking at his dimple more than she should and cleared her throat.

"Sorry, I am being rude. I am sure you have plenty to do and so have I."

"Actually, I was looking for someone. I was just hired and I am here making a stage… I still don't know the hospital very well and I was a little lost. My boss told me to find some…" he looked at a piece of paper he had on his hand. "Molly Hooper? She's a pathologist. He said she should be arriving to work soon and…"

Molly smiled, realising she would have to interrupt him.

"That's me." She said. The man stopped talking. "I am Molly Hooper. Pathologist."

"Oh! Well, nice to meet you then! My name's Shane Wright."

He extended a hand that Molly shook. His fingers were soft. Still, they were not as strong and warm as Sherlock's. Inside her own mind Molly shook her head. What a stupid thing she was and what stupid thoughts she had.

"Nice to meet you too. Dr. Green didn't tell me anything about you, so I wasn't expecting you. But then again, I wasn't here yesterday. So, I am not really sure what to do with you."

"Well, you can use your imagination, Dr. Hooper."

The flirt on his tone made Molly blush. He noticed.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. I am an idiot sometimes and I can't really tell where my jokes should stop." He apologised.

Sherlock was an idiot sometimes too. He did not joke much, though.

"No, it's okay." Molly dismissed the embarrassment. "Well, let me talk with Dr. Green and I will see what I have to do with you without needing imagination."

She said, playfully. Shane laughed, the corners of his eyes showing some irresistible wrinkles as he did it. He nodded and followed Molly to their boss' office.

Molly spent the morning with Shane, going through bodies. In the afternoon Molly would have to let him know how all the paperwork was processed. Shane was a nice person. Cheerful and polite. He seemed kind. Was always joking around, picking up loose fingers and hands and pretending to be scared of the bodies every time Moly opened a bag with a corpse inside or telling jokes about how the person had died and the life they led even before they had touched the bodies. He was easy going and happy. The difference between him and Sherlock was astounding.

Molly stopped what she was doing and washed her hands, getting ready for lunch. Why was it that every time, every day, no matter what she was doing, it was always Sherlock that came to her mind? She knew damn well the answer to that question and was tired of it. Why couldn't she just fall in love with a nice, cheerful guy and move on? Of course the nice, cheerful guy would have to fall in love with her as well, otherwise she might as well just stick with Sherlock. Still, why couldn't it just happen? She was tired of being alone. Not in the sense of being physically alone, but in the sense of having no one to rely on to completely. It made her sad and angry. Still, she shouldn't be angry. Sherlock had checked on her so many times during that night, didn't it mean something?

"Are you going to eat here?" Shane asked, washing his hands as soon as Molly finished.

"Yes. Would you like to join me?" She asked.

"Sure. I am staying here as well and it makes no sense for us to pretend like we don't know each other in the cafeteria. This is not high school anymore, so don't worry, your reputation will remain untouched."

"That's kind of a pity." Molly answered, pushing the swinging doors and leaving the morgue with Shane by her side. "I was kind of hoping you could help me improve it."

"Oh, no, no such luck. Well, at least we are, the both of us, renegades. We can open a club!"

They both laughed. Molly stopped, noticing someone was observing them. She looked up and found Sherlock's eyes placed on her. His expression was soft but was starting to harden as soon as he set eyes on Shane, who was standing quite close to Molly.

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, smiling. She was not really sure of what to do after that. She decided to introduce Shane just to break the ice. "This is Shane. He's the new…"

"Intern, yes, I can see that." Sherlock interrupted. He kept his stare on the man. Molly was pretty sure he was just going to start describing Shane with an impressive detail as if he had known him for years. Sherlock opened his mouth to do so but refrained at the last moment.

"Nice to meet you. I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Cool name!" Shane said casually.

Sherlock showed him a quick smirk and turned to Molly.

"I just came to check if you were still okay."

"Yes, I am good. My head still hurts a bit, on the back, but it will be fine. Apart from that I am as good as new."

"Good." He said. His tone was cold. "Well, I shall be going then."

He turned around, nodding his head to both Molly and Shane as a goodbye.

"Wait!" Molly called. "We are just going to eat, why don't you join us? I am sure I can get you some food as well, I know the lady at the dining hall…"

"No, thanks. I am not hungry. I will see you later."

"What's that in your bag?" Molly asked.

Sherlock looked at the brown paper bag he had in his hand. Without looking into Molly's eyes he passed her the bag.

"It's for you." He pointed at Molly and at Shane, head still facing his black shoes. "Enjoy it."

And without allowing Molly to add anything else or stop him, he stormed away, his long coat fluttering behind him.

Molly opened the bag as they sat down at the cafeteria, before they ordered their meals. From the smell Molly could guess what it was and she was right. There, wrapped in lots of paper to help it keep warm, were fish and chips. Enough for two. Molly looked up. She felt bad for sharing the food that Sherlock had brought for her and himself with Shane, but she would not waste it away. With a lump on her throat she offered it to Shane and they ate, talking about the day they still had ahead of them. Her head was only half in the conversation, though. Why, she asked again, was it that Sherlock always made her feel guilty when there was nothing for her to feel guilty about?

Sherlock got out of the taxi and into 221B Baker Street. He picked up his violin and started playing violently. Mrs. Hudson was not at home so she wouldn't mind. Not that it would make any difference if she did mind, he wouldn't have stopped. And a violin was always better than bullets on her wall.

A sick idea was running through his head and he didn't want to let it surface, so he was playing as fast as he could to push it out of his head. The word was taking form and shouldn't. 'No, no, no,' he would say to himself, walking in circles with the violin resting on his neck. Then, all of a sudden, the word took shape and floated away, appearing before his eyes, life soap bubbles blown by the wind. Jealousy. He sent the word away from his eyes with a shake of his head. He was not jealous of Molly. He wasn't. Why should he be? He calmed down a little and continued to play. But, as the day unfolded, the word would come back and take form in front of his eyes again, like a ghost, tormenting his restless mind.


	13. Chapter 13

Molly got home that day a little later than usual. As she entered the flat, Sherlock was sitting on the red chair, showing a calm that he wasn't actually feeling. She stopped for a little at the door and he looked behind, at her.

"Hello." He said. He gazed back to the street outside, through the window.

Molly walked in and placed her things on the kitchen table. Then she came closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I have something for you." She said.

Sherlock looked up. She was smiling.

"What is it?" He asked.

"Well, if I tell you, what's the fun?" She picked a plastic bag and gave it to him. He accepted the bag and took out what was inside. It was wrapped in dark blue paper. Sherlock knew it was a book even before he had opened it, so asking Molly what it was had just been a way of trying to be polite. He torn the paper apart and looked at the book cover. 'The best friends book.' was the title. It looked like a children's book, with images and many bright colours.

"Why did you bring this to me? It's a kid's book." He asked, pointing at it. His tone was not bitter, just really curious.

"Well, you brought me lunch. I passed a book store on the way here and saw that… I thought of you."

Molly didn't want to go any further on the subject. It was indeed a kid's book. But she had opened it and had laughed. And Sherlock had never had a book for kids before, so maybe this could be a good start. She got up.

"I am going to make dinner." Was all she said before she turned around.

As he heard Molly picking up pans at the kitchen, Sherlock opened the book and read it.

'Best friends will let you jump on their bed no matter how big you are.'

'Best friends will let you make dinner for them even if you serve spaghetti and worms.'

As he turned the page there was an image of a bucket of spaghetti and worms. Sherlock smiled. He turned another page.

'Best friends will say you look good even if you have a bad haircut.'

Molly prepared the food and looked at Sherlock and at his reactions while reading the book. It was a small one but had put her in a good mood. From Sherlock's smile it had made the same to him. He got up, with the book still in his hand. He stopped at the entrance of the kitchen, Molly looking at him.

"Thank you." He said, lifting the book with his hand. "It's quite fun."

Molly just nodded and turned to the pan, paying attention to the dinner she was cooking. Sherlock decided to help for the first time. He searched in the cabinets for the table cloth, plates and cutlery. It took him a while but he managed. He was thankful Molly hadn't tried to help, appreciating his effort.

To Molly's surprise he had put two plates and sat at the table when dinner was ready. He barely ate and when he did it was always on a rush. She served him first.

"It's spaghetti." Sherlock said, remembering the book he had just read.

Molly laughed.

"Yes. Coincidence."

They ate in silence. Sherlock removed the dishes from the table and Molly washed them. He then looked at her and sat at the chair again, looking out. She came next to him.

"This is dessert."

She passed him something on a plastic bag. Sherlock looked inside. It was jelly worms. He looked at her.

"See, I just served you spaghetti and worms. That's what best friends are for."

And, for the first time, she found herself doing something she had never done before. She kissed him on the cheek, an affectionate kiss.

As she went up the stairs to her room, Sherlock felt a lump in his throat and wasn't sure what that meant. If it was caused by a hysterical happiness that his rational side would not let him express in no other way, or an extreme sadness for being a rusty machine.

The door downstairs rang and Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson go down the stairs and open it. The sound of footsteps came up and Sherlock heard a familiar voice. John Watson.

John walked into the apartment, knocking slightly on the opened door.

"May I come in?"

Sherlock got up.

"John! Yes, of course!"

"So, how are things going?" John asked. He was smiling and sat in his old chair, as if nothing had changed, as if he had never moved. "I see some improvement in the apartment. Not such a mess. Has Molly been doing all by herself?"

Sherlock nodded, a guilty look on his face.

"More or less." He said.

"Are you eating candy?" John asked, pointing at Sherlock's hand.

"Yes. It was Molly who brought it."

"Wow, Molly is making more improvements than I was ever able to make in all the time I live here."

"Well, Dr. Watson, I am a strong, independent woman. What did you think?"

Molly came down the stairs and complimented John, who got up.

"You look good." She said. "Mary has been feeding you well, I see. And the baby?"

"Well, that's why I came here today." John said, grinning from ear to ear.

"What is it then? Oh, you know the gender?"

Sherlock was looking from one to the other. There was something about babies that he did not understand. It was just another human being in this cruel world. He didn't get why such enthusiasm.

Even before John had told them Mary was pregnant again, Sherlock knew. He was aware that, for some reason, Mary hadn't let John himself know until the day of their wedding. And he would not be the one to break the news to John sooner than Mary wished. Then, when they returned from the honey moon and came to the apartment, to surprise Sherlock, they were quite disappointed those were no news to him. Still, it lasted for a little time. They had engaged on a conversation about the baby with Molly, who answered with as much enthusiasm as they did. Sherlock had abstained from making any harsh comment. Babies were little crying and dirty creatures. They were scary.

John nodded to Molly, confirming her suspicious. And he said.

"It's a boy!"

The look of happiness on his face was something Sherlock had never seen before. Like there was light emanating from his friend. See, he sure as well was right about babies. They turned other people into strange things.

"Well, congratulations!" Molly said, smiling widely. Whoever saw her would say she was the one having the baby, not Mary. Molly looked at Sherlock, searching for a reaction. He did what he was supposed to.

"Congratulations."

Nothing could put John's happiness down, not even the indifferent look Sherlock had shown.

"What about names, do you have any idea for names?"

"Ah, we don't know yet. Mary has some ideas, but we are not sure. She says she wants a fun, strong but original name, that is not used very often. Well, we still have time, we'll see."

"Those are very good news, John." Molly said, putting her head to the side, as if John's happiness was reflecting on her. "And if Mary needs anything, anything at all from us, she can ask."

Sherlock was not sure when he had told Molly that Mary could count on him. He turned around and sat at the microscope.

John saw him going to his mind palace.

"What is it with him?" He asked.

"Ah, he just doesn't know how to react towards people being happy. Especially when it comes from love, or family. You know him, John."

"Yes, I do. I don't know why I keep asking. So, any new cases? I've been working lately so I haven't been able to help him. Is he driving you mad already?"

Molly spent the next half hour John was at the apartment relating all about their latest adventure and how she had seen herself involved in it.

"I have a new work colleague now." She said. "A new intern that is doing a stage. His name is Shane."

Sherlock raised his eyes from the microscope when he heard this, paying attention to the conversation for the first time.

"Ah, yes? So, you don't have to be alone?" John asked.

"No, which is good, I don't get to speak with the dead for a change. One time my boss caught me having a very deep conversation with a man who had been crushed by a bus. He was quite concerned with me. I was asking the deceased if he thought I should adopt a cat or not. My boss didn't say anything at the time and just left, but a few hours later asked me if Mr. Deceased had helped me make a good decision. I was so embarrassed."

John laughed and looked at his watch.

"Oh, is this the time." He got up. "I have to go, Mary is waiting for me. I promised a foot massage."

"A foot massage? Damn, isn't she lucky! Well, she does deserve it; her feet must be swollen with the pregnancy and all."

"That's at least the excuse she always use." John admitted, smiling again. He got close to Sherlock, who had set his eyes on the microscope, pretending to pay attention to it.

"I'll see you around, Sherlock."

"Yes." Sherlock said, not even bothering to look up. "Say hello to Mary for me."

"Will do. Be nice."

And John left the apartment, at fast pace. Sherlock knew the 'be good' thing meant 'to Molly.'

"Well, I am going upstairs for a bit." Molly announced. She looked at the microscope and at Sherlock. "What are you looking there?"

"Tobacco ashes." He said simply.

"Well, you might want to put this there, then." And she picked a microscope slide with some ashes from the table and put it on the microscope, where before was nothing but thin air.

She smiled and left without another word and Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, realising he had never looked so stupid in his life.

0

A few hours later Sherlock was sitting at his chair, going through the pages of the book Molly had given him that day, reading it over and over again. He heard a soft music coming from upstairs. It was Molly, playing her piano. He closed his eyes, hoping for the music to be different this time. But it wasn't, it was the same. It was always the same.

0

After leaving Sherlock with his microscope, Molly had gone to her room. She was feeling a little cold so she had changed to her pyjamas already. She sat at her bed, thinking about all the things that had happened since she had moved to 221B Baker Street. She had been on an adventure with Sherlock, where she ended up with a concussion and a head ache.

Still, the day before had possibly been one of the best days of her life. The proximity with Sherlock had been almost too much for her to bear, and now that all the worries were gone and the case solved, she could really appreciate it. The way he had carried her on his arms, the way he had rubbed her arm and kept her close so she wouldn't fall. The concern. The fact that he had punched someone who had hurt her. Because they had hurt her. All that played around in her head. The way he smelled and the way her head fit so well placed on his chest. His soft skin. His cold but mysterious eyes that had, at last, showed some emotion. Fear. For her. Of losing her. Molly was not sure if she should laugh or cry. Today he had gone to the hospital to take her lunch and he was planning on eating with her, had it not been for Shane. All his actions made her very confuse.

Shane was a nice guy. He was fun and witty and sassy too. And cheerful and filled with joy and he didn't play around. He had asked her out that day. Maybe he was a bit too forward but he had asked her out, with no false pretence nor fear of showing his emotions. Obviously, she didn't know if she should trust him or not. But, shouldn't we always give a chance to people? She had, therefore, said yes. To going out outside work. On a date. To have dinner. There was nothing wrong with it. Sometimes people just click and, hadn't it been for Sherlock, she would be exited. And that was what made her mad. Always Sherlock, everywhere! Sherlock was not a choice. She knew that well. Still, he was always there in her head, as if he was indeed a choice. A choice between him and all the others. Maybe that's why she couldn't be happy. She wouldn't allow herself to be. She always ended up comparing them all to Sherlock.

She had been in some relationships and most of them the men had broken up with her. But sometimes Molly wondered. What if they hadn't? Would she be able to go on a relationship? Would she be able to forget Sherlock at once and be happy? And make someone happy? That was the question that scared her the most. And he was so messed up. Going mad and shouting at things when he was bored, always rude to people, unaware of other people's emotions. Even now, with John. John was his best friend and was so happy, still Sherlock had not been able to at least pretend to be exited. He just wouldn't. And who would want someone like that? Not her. No, she couldn't. She was not confident enough for that, was she? He would break her heart in little pieces and it would be all her fault. Even now, it was all her fault. Fake expectations, stupid comparisons. The problem was that, no matter how many times she said it was time to move on, it was no use. And yet, she was determined not to let him ruin her life more than he already had. She had accepted Shane's invitation and she would make the most out of that date. And, if Shane turned out to be as nice as he looked like at first impression, then she would not waste her chance.

She looked up, at the window in the ceiling. The stars shone bright that night. It was quite calming. She got up and sat at the piano. Her fingers ran through the keys instinctively. She knew the song by heart. She was sure the piano itself would be able to play it alone by now; so many times she had played that same song. The familiarity of the song made her mind calm down. After a while she heard the violin melody downstairs take the same shape of the melody she was playing. It was nice and Sherlock did know how to play it well. She kept going, the same rhythm. For some reason the violin seemed louder now and she closed her eyes. The sound of the violin sounded so close now, as if it was there. Molly opened her eyes and stopped playing. She looked back, at the door. Sherlock was in the room, violin placed on his neck, playing the song. She smiled and he stopped. He placed the violin over her bed and sat by her side.

"Would you like to play something else tonight?"

She looked at him, surprised. The she thought about the weight his words had. She wasn't prepared for this.

"I don't think I am prepared for this, Sherlock." And she started to get up.

Sherlock grabbed her hand before she could leave the bench and she looked at their hands together. Sherlock hadn't moved his eyes from her face. Gently he pulled her hand until she sat again.

"You will never be prepared for this." He said. "Try. I'll help you."

Molly couldn't face him. Sherlock placed her hands softly on the piano keys and they played randomly. He then left her hands and turned the music sheet to a song he knew. It was a Christmas' song. He put one finger on Molly's chin and made her look at him. He then made a gesture with his head, inviting her to play.

Molly swallowed, completely sure she would not be able to do it, to make it through untill the end. Still, using all her will, she started to play. First, the melody that came out of the piano was unsure and out of tune, unsynchronized. But, as she continued, the notes started to fit with each other and started to create a melody both of them knew. Silent Night was a soft, slow song. The notes were always the same and they were easy. Molly felt her strength start to falter and she knew she would cry. She was certain of it, as her eyes welled up. She took a deep breath and, as she was about to stop and give it all up, she felt Sherlock's head leaning against her shoulder, abandoned. She proceeded. Sherlock closed his eyes and heard the song. Molly played for what seemed hours and hours and Sherlock never moved. When her fingers finally gave up she felt like the weight on her heart was gone.

Sherlock raised his head and gave her another song, without a word. Molly played again, without hesitation this time. After almost two hours and several songs, she felt she had finally made it. She had overcome her fear.

Sherlock placed his hand over hers, as she stopped playing, and looked her in the eyes. His green eyes were filled with pride and had a different shine to it.

He then let go of her hand and got up.

"Well done, Molly Hooper." He whispered in her ear. He then leaned against her forehead and placed a kiss there. Molly closed her eyes, with her hands still placed on the piano. When she opened them again Sherlock had already picked his violin and left the room. Only hours later, alone in her bed, did Molly Hooper cry all the tears she had kept imprisoned. If there was something Sherlock did not know was that Molly Hooper had been unable to cry for her mum's death since the day of her funeral, when she was a scared and sad ten year old. Now she was, for the first time, grieving her mum's dead and taking the chance to forgive herself for the last words she had said to her mum before she died.

0

Downstairs, Sherlock had gone to bed too and was saying the same words over and over, in a whisper, appreciating the way they sounded in his tongue. Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper. He fell asleep when the sun was coming through the window, with the blurred vision of Molly smiling at him.


	14. Chapter 14

The working morning had been pleasant to Molly. To have Shane to come and work with her had really been a blessing. When she thought she was going to be overwhelmed with work, he would help her to relax and take things easily. And he learned fast, so now he was more of a help than a nuisance. And he made her laugh. The stories of life he had told had made Molly feel jealous. Damn, he had had fun! She wished she had so many things to tell. She had made her own mistakes and pranks, but when compared to him she was just a goody two shoes. Even Dr. Green was surprised to have caught them laughing with each other, hands on their bellies and still, the work was done. He had smiled at Molly and Shane and told them both to keep up.

She entered the apartment, placing her everyday purse on the couch. She took her cell phone and wallet out of it; she would not need that purse today. Today was a day for a special purse. As she walked in the living room, ready to go upstairs to get what she needed to take a shower, Sherlock came out of his room. They shared the same look. The same roguish smile crossed their lips and they just nodded their heads without saying anything. No words were needed. The excitement was exactly the same.

Molly went to the shower but, looking at the clock, decided that taking a bath was just what she needed to get ready. She decided to add some bubble bath and laid down in the bathtub, enjoying the moment to herself. She washed her head with her favourite shampoo and allowed herself stay there until the water started to cool down.

Sherlock picked his own coat and left the flat, whistling. The air was a bit chilli, but it was not uncomfortable. He put the collar of his coat up and then closed the coat, just one button. His pace was quite… upbeat. He smiled at a random stranger. The man looked at him as if he was crazy, avoiding eye contact. That made Sherlock smirk even more.

Molly got out of the bath, drying her skin. She applied some cream that made her skin soft and smell good. It looked healthy. She blow dried her hair and brushed it well. Then she picked the flat iron and straightened it up. She liked what she saw in the mirror. She still wanted to apply some make up but that would have to wait for after being dressed. She didn't want to ruin it. She left the bathroom and looked around. She had never shown herself like that to Sherlock, she never left the bathroom without clothes on. She looked around but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. She went up the stairs, taking the small bathroom mirror with her upstairs. She wanted to get ready in her own room. She wanted Sherlock to see her only when she was totally prepared.

Sherlock entered the apartment. He looked at the flowers he had bought her, pleased. Sunflowers, her favourites. He smiled and placed them on the couch, on top of Molly's purse. He removed his coat and hanged it behind the door. He then picked the flowers again and went to his room. He had taken a shower just before Molly arrived from work but his hair was now almost dry. It was time to get dressed.

Molly opened the door of her closet, a smile still dangling from her lips. She felt special that day. She ran her fingers through the dresses. The night was not very chilli so she could take something a bit lighter. Her fingers stopped at the dress she had taken to John and Mary's wedding. Should she? It would be a repetition and she wanted to have something new to show. It was comfortable, though. She stopped for a while, thinking about her options. Then she remembered the present Mary and John had given her for Christmas. She loved the dress so much when she saw it at the store. And it looked great on her, but she had, in the end, decided not to buy it, because she never had many occasions to wear it. Mary had been upset with her, so she had gone back to the store, without Molly's knowledge, and had bought the dress for her. It had been thoughtful of Mary to do it. She was now very grateful to have such a nice friend in Mary. She opened the box at the bottom of the closet, removing the silk ribbon and took the dress out of it. It was lovely. The colour was vivid. Red looked well on her, though. It contrasted with her pale features. She put the dress on, enjoying the feeling of the cloth on her skin. It fit perfectly. She looked at herself on the wardrobe's mirror. It fit so well. She was not used to it. She picked up her make up bag from the drawer. It was so rare for her to use it; she hoped to have everything she needed. The essentials were there; foundation, blush, a bit of eye shadow and lipstick. She didn't like to use mascara. Her eyelashes were probably the only thing she was proud and confident about in her body and they were big enough without any make up. The mascara would only make them get sticky and she hated that. She had applied eyeliner and that was more than enough. She then fixed her hair again and put some perfume.

Molly looked at herself in the mirror. For the first time in years she felt powerful. Pretty. Like she could go out the door and conquer everything. And, curious as it was, all she wanted to conquer was inside the door. Molly shook her head, smiling. She then went to the worst part. Shoes. Black. All she had were shoes and black. Which one to choose? With heels, to look classy but with the certainty of some hurt feet at the end of the night, or some flat shoes that would not look so nice but would allow her to have more fun? Molly smiled. Heels, definitely. If she was going for the kill she was going with all her weapons.

Sherlock opened his wardrobe, searching for a shirt. Which colour should he choose? He ran his fingers through them, indecisive. Black. Yes. Black was a good colour. He was not very used to make this kind of decisions consciously. Usually he would just dress the first shirt that was available as soon as he opened the door of the closet, but this was no night like the other nights. He put on the shirt and decided it was a good choice. He opened the other door, searching for his best suit. He picked it up and cleaned little bits of dust with his hand. He hadn't used that since he got it, two years ago. It had been a present from Mycroft. His brother might be many things, but his taste in suits was unquestionable. He put the suit on, beginning with the trousers. They fit perfectly, for his amazement. He then put the coat on and buttoned the middle button. It was good. Well, it was okay. He didn't seem very different from the Sherlock everybody saw on his day to day life but at least he was making an effort. He thought about Molly upstairs and smiled. He had to find something that she would like. He looked in his drawer. Diamond cufflinks? No, his suit had buttons. Tie pin? And he straightened up. Yes, a tie. That was a good idea. He didn't need the tie pin for anything, but the tie would be a change. He searched through all the ties he had on his second drawer. What colour to choose? What colour would Molly like? He smiled and picked one John had given him a few Christmas ago. Red. It was a good colour. He put the tie on.

When he looked in the mirror, fully dressed, he smiled. He hated ties; they made him feel like he was choking. But that would be his weapon in the battlefield.

Sherlock came out of the room with the tickets in hand at the same time Molly was coming down the stairs. Good, he needed to talk with her.

When she finally revealed herself and fully appeared in the living room, Sherlock's voice choked in his throat. She. Was. Looking. Beautiful. Even more than usual, and he didn't think that was even possible. The dress she was wearing fell to her knees and, to his surprise, she was wearing heels. Her dress was red, the same scarlet colour of his own tie.

"Oh, hello." She said. "You are looking very handsome." And smiled.

He was too shocked to be able to say anything.

She put her phone and the wallet on her small black purse and smiled again, looking at him in the eyes.

"I'll see you later."

He came out of his trance.

"Wait, Molly." She turned around, an inquisitive look on her face. "Where are you going?"

"I got a date tonight." She said. There was an undisguised delight on her voice. "With Shane."

Sherlock mouth opened a bit and he nodded with his head, without adding anything else.

Molly smiled again and looked at her watch.

"I better go. See you later!"

She said her goodbyes and disappeared through the door, the red dress fluttering behind her, looking as light as she did.

Sherlock swallowed the lump on his throat and undid the knot of his tie, removing it. He then looked at the two tickets to the opera on his hand, forgetting all at once the words he had been rehearsing all day to invite her out.

He sat at the couch, sighing. The he got up and went to his room, to get the sunflowers. He would not give up on the night. He put on the tie again. Mrs. Hudson seemed like someone who appreciated opera and sunflowers. He went down the stairs, calling her name and he could swear he had never seen Mrs. Hudson so happy in his life.

'I haven't gone to the opera since I was a little girl,' she said, as she put her coat on. Or at least that's what Sherlock understood. His mind was too far away for him to make any sense of what was actually happening. The way Molly looked that night seemed almost surreal. And, for the second time in two days, he had been too late.

He did not believe in signs, but maybe that was a sign. He was not a man of the heart. He was a man of the mind. That's how he should remain.


	15. Chapter 15

Molly waited outside the restaurant for Shane to arrive. She was holding her coat and her purse and was a little nervous. From what it looked from the outside that must be one of the best places in London. There was a small entrance, the ground with little stones and flowers surrounding it. At the door was a waiter wearing a tuxedo and he would check for the reservations list every time someone arrived. He would then take their coats and hang them on a closet at the entrance. Many couples were coming in and out of it and many taxis stopped at the entrance. Molly stood a bit to the side, avoiding blocking the way. She heard a voice calling her name.

"Hey, Molly?"

She turned around. At the entrance, waiting for her, was Shane. He was so handsome that night. The suit he had chosen was dark grey and he was wearing a blue tie that stood in place with the help of a tie pin. The cuff links on his coat were of natural stone, matching the light blue of his tie. His dark blue eyes were shinning, and reflected the light from the many lamps that were hanging from a string, marking the way to the entrance of the restaurant. Molly smiled and stepped in his direction. He extended a hand that she grabbed.

"I was waiting for you. I got here a little early. Very early, actually." He laughed. "So I went inside for a little."

"Oh, it's okay. I came a bit later. Sorry to make you wait."

"Oh, no, please. Don't apologise." He closed the matter. "Shall we go?"

He offered her an arm that Molly accepted and gave her coat to the waiter so that he could keep it. Molly smiled. He was not late. He had arrived earlier. He didn't make her wait. That was a good sign, right?

"You look stunning." He said, as he pulled a chair so she could sit down. He helped her adjust the chair and then sat in front of her.

"Thanks you." She said, a little embarrassed. She was not used to hear compliments and to thank for them.

"I am just stating a fact." He looked right at her face, smiling.

There was a honesty on her smile that Molly loved. She realised is eyes continued to shine, now lighten up by the candle light. Inside, the restaurant was even better than she expected. It was not at all fancy. It was, actually, very cosy and warm. Just the kind of place she liked. It didn't make her feel misplaced. It was perfect. On the far end there was a band playing slow songs and some couples circling on the dance floor. All tables were lightened up with candles and there were no lamps. All around the place were chandeliers with wax burning and most people were speaking in whispers. It was beautiful.

"So, do you like the place?" Shane asked, expectant.

Molly looked at him and smiled.

"Yes, it's wonderful."

"I haven't come here before so I wasn't sure what to expect. I saw a few pictures online and it seemed nice. It seemed like the type of place you would like."

Molly smiled again, not sure of what to do. He knew her for so little time and still, he had been spot on.

"It was a great choice. I wouldn't have found a better place." She admitted.

The waiter came with a bottle of wine and filled their glasses. He noted the order they made. Shane was vegetarian so he ordered something without meat. Molly wasn't sure what to order. She loved meat but now was not sure. Shane smiled, as if reading her thoughts.

"It's okay, you can order meat. I am a vegetarian, but you don't need to be. And there's no need to feel guilty, everybody has different choices. And I swear I will not bother you with arguments to become a vegetarian."

Molly and the waiter smiled at each other and she decided to be as faithful to herself as she could. She ordered the steak with mushrooms. The waiter left and they tried the wine. Molly wasn't very used to drink wine but it felt warm on her tongue. It was sweet and, even if it was far from being her favourite drink, it wasn't bad at all.

The rest of the dinner went quite smoothly. Shane was a bit more serious than when at work but acted, all in all, like his normal self. Funny and witty and attentive. He would listen to everything she had to say until she was done with it and would answer accordingly, keeping a steady conversation. It was easy to talk to him. Effortless. The hours flew and both of them ordered dessert, not guilty for all the calories contained in the chocolate ice cream, and enjoying each other's company. Molly switched from wine to juice before she started to feel light headed and Shane joined her with the juice. His conversation was also interesting. He also loved books and they both engaged on a conversation about many they had read in common. When Shane came from the bathroom, watching Molly looking at the pairs that twirled around on the dance floor, he didn't say a word. He gave her his hand and led her to a corner next to the band and they swirled slowly, close to each other, until their feet started to ache.

Shane went to take care of the bill while Molly got her coats. She waited outside for him, appreciating the way the lamps shone above her head, blinding the stars. The night had been very pleasant so far. She had discovered that she and Shane had more in common that what it seemed at first sight. They loved almost the same books and enjoyed debating them and telling their favourite parts on and on again. It was fun. He had, like her, been raised in an ordinary family and his father had died a few years ago. He still had his mother, who he visited regularly and was always calling and troubling him to eat better and visit more. He had shown her pictures of his sisters, both younger than him and both in college. He seemed proud of them. He was helping paying for their education and felt the need to protect them, since they had no father figure to guide them. Shane was, indeed, a very nice guy. The way they had danced together and the way he offered his arm so she could hold on to him didn't seem forced or misplaced. It seemed right. Like he didn't want to make her do anything she didn't feel comfortable with.

Molly sighed. She hadn't feel like that in years. The way he looked at her was so… innocent. She hadn't seen, in the whole night, a look of lust. It was more of appreciation. And she liked it. Made her be sure she had made the right choice.

"Should we go?" Shane came out of the restaurant, thanking the waiter at the door.

"Sure." Molly answered and they both started walking side by side.

Without noticing, they had headed to the river and walked together, silently. The silence felt well though, and none of them felt the need to break it for a while. Molly looked at the water down there, dark and quiet. They walked for a long time, talking about each other again. Shane made a lot of questions about Molly; her past, what were her plans for the future. He listened and smiled and she felt that, in spite of their differences, he understood her. He talked about his plans as well – become a super hero, eat a whole box of ice cream without becoming sick and help save the word in the same day – regular everyday things. Molly laughed. She looked up.

"See that constellation?" He asked her. "I wonder what its name is."

Molly laughed. Very clever, he was. She had told him how her father loved astronomy and had taught her a lot of things.

"That's Cassiopeia." She answered, pointing at the sky with her finger.

"Does it have a story?" He inquired.

"Yes." That's all she answered.

He looked at her, his eyes shining again.

"Well, let me hear it then."

"Are you sure you are not going to get bored?"

"Why would I get bored with your story? I like your voice. It's ralaxing. Go ahead." He encouraged.

Molly took a deep breath, trying to remember everything.

"Cassiopeia comes from the Greek Mythology. She was a very vain and arrogant Queen. She and her daughter, Andromeda, claimed to be the most beautiful woman. Even more than the Nereids, the daughters of the god of the sea, Nereus. So, Poseidon, the ruler of the seas, decided to punish her and her daughter. Andromeda was saved by Perseus and escaped her punishment, but Cassiopeia was not so lucky. So Poseidon, as a punishment, placed Cassiopeia in the heavens tied to a chair in such a position that, as she circles the celestial pole, she is half the time upside down."

Molly looked at the constellation, shining with its many stars. It was quite a vacant story. Not one of her favourites. And she couldn't relate to it in any way.

Shane was gazing at her when she looked down again.

"Well, that Cassiopeia Queen didn't know you for sure."

Molly blushed, unable to find a good answer for that. Shane noticed her embarrassment and started to walk away from the river. She followed him.

They continued to talk for a long time. Molly noticed that Shane's steps were leading her home. She was glad. She didn't want to go to his place and have to decline his invitation to come in.

She stopped for a while, rubbing her feet.

"Does it hurt?" Shane asked, genuinely concerned.

"A little bit. It is my fault, I decided to bring heels." She admitted.

To her surprise Shane took off his own shoes and then kneeled down, helping her remove hers. He grabbed her bare foot and put his shoes on her feet, tying the shoelaces. Luckily his shoes were big but not so big as to fall from her feet as she walked. He held her shoes in his hands and they continued to walk.

"Thank you." Molly said, looking at his bare feet on the pavement.

"It's okay." He said.

They continued their walk, Molly guiding the way now that they were closer to home. She had no words for his gesture. Her feet were now feeling slightly better. As they arrived at the door of 221B Baker Street and looked at each other to say their goodbyes, Molly realised that it had been a very good evening.

0

Sherlock was looking at himself on the bathroom mirror and trying to compose his ruined suit. As he was about to sit down to see the show, an old man had passed by him and, losing balance, had left all his drink fall on Sherlock's chest. Luckily it was not hot. Unfortunately the dark drink had soaked him entirely. He had left Mrs. Hudson sitting at her place and had come to the bathroom. By the time he tried to return, the show had already begun and they would not allow him to get in once the doors were closed. He would have to wait for the intermission to go back to the spectacle. As he looked at his face and at his wet suit he wondered what else would happen that night.

Well, the answer was not far from being known. Before the show continued again he went to sit at his place. Mrs. Hudson, however, was nowhere to be seen. She came back after the second intermission for the last part of the show. She had, apparently, found an old friend from university and they got so into the conversation that when they tried to return the doors were already closed. She then said they would have a drink when the Opera was finished and asked Sherlock if he would like to join them. Sherlock declined politely.

As the people left the theatre he waved goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and saw her leaving with the man holding her by the arm. Now he had also lost his companion. Well, might as well go home. Putting on his long coat he walked the streets of London, taking turns and choosing the longest path. He needed to think. To clarify his ideas. But he did not want to go back to the apartment yet.

He was pacing slowly down a deserted road, looking at the stars in the sky and trying to block the thought of Molly on her read dress. He sensed a car riding very slowly next to him. He barely had to look to know who that was. He did not slow down or stopped. The car stopped and a man came out of it, calling his name.

"Sherlock."

Mycroft pronounced his name as he usually did, with a hint of impatience on his voice. Sherlock stopped finally, knowing there was no use in trying to avoid his brother. He turned around.

"Mycroft." Was all he said, as he took his hands from behind his back and put it in his pockets.

"Ah, Opera evening?" Mycroft asked, not really looking for an answer. "A pity they ruined your suit. Has Mrs. Hudson gone home already?"

"How long have you been following me?" Sherlock asked him.

"Less than two minutes." Mycroft answered. He was telling the truth.

"How do you know I was with Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, it's quite clear isn't it?" But Mycroft didn't add anything else. "I like the touch of the tie. Vivid colour. Suits you."

Sherlock kept his silence, wishing his brother would just say what he wanted instead of trying to be polite and interested in him. It was an effort, even for Mycroft.

"The answer is no." Sherlock said, as Mycroft didn't seem to want to break the awkward silence.

"You haven't even heard my…"

"I don't need to. I am not interested. Stop bothering me, Mycroft. The answer is no."

And Sherlock put his hands behind his back again and started pacing away from his brother.

"I see you are upset today. More than usual, I mean. I will ask you to come by my office tomorrow."

"I said I am not interested." Said Sherlock stopping, but still not facing his brother.

"Please reconsider."

Mycroft entered his car and left, without a farewell.

Sherlock looked around and to his own feet. He kicked a stone that was on the ground, frustrated. The ache on his foot was more than enough to make him even angrier.

He was now closer to the flat and was thankful for that. He was tired of the whole world. He needed now his violin and a strong drink. A drink that would make his head go dizzy and allow him to sleep deeply until the very first hours of the morning.

As he walked, he looked up. He stopped. At his door he saw Molly and Shane. She was wearing his shoes and he had her shoes on his hand for some reason. Ah, Sherlock thought, she had hurt her feet because of the heels and he had given her his own shoes. Sherlock thought how people came up with these ideas. Giving someone their shoes.

He saw Molly smiling and Shane looking at her. They looked then at each other, without saying a word. Molly looked down and Shane placed a finger on her chin, making her look into his eyes. He then leaned closer to her and kissed her on her lips, a full kiss, passionate and impetuous. They kissed for a long time, holding hands, so long that Sherlock started to feel like he wouldn't be able to take it in anymore. When they parted, Molly smiled and so did Shane, and they kissed again. Molly let go of Shane's hand and said her good nights, getting into the flat and closing the door behind her. Shane stood there, an infatuated look on her face and smiled as if he owned the world. Sherlock knew he did. He saw him then turn around, a foolish smile on his lips and leave down the road, still barefoot and holding Molly's shoes on his hand.

Sherlock stood there, unable to move for a long time. He was not sure how he gathered the courage to go back to the flat and when had he fallen on the bed, staring at the ceiling for hours without being able to sleep, but also incapable of moving to get the drink he now longed for, more than ever.

Molly had gone to bed, her heart almost bursting on her chest. The way Shane had kissed her had surprised her, but in a good way. He hadn't been very gentle, but had made it up with passion. She only realised she still had his shoes when she was removing them to go to bed. She laid down on her bed and smiled for hours, unable to sleep, the happiness too much to bear. Only hours later, when the first rays of sun walked through the ceiling window, did she notice she hadn't even realised up to that moment the strange silence, Sherlock's absence in the apartment.


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Molly continued to yell at him. She had been like that for more than ten minutes and he was too bored to actually move or talk. He had been looking at the wall. There was a moth hanging there. Why was it hanging there? If moths loved light so much why didn't it just fly away and went outside? Molly continued to yell, but the sound seemed closer now. Sherlock had closed his eyes for a few seconds but opened them again as he felt Molly shaking him by his shoulders.

"Are you even listening to me?" She said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "You have been in this bloody apartment for three weeks now! Three weeks! That's a whole month! A whole month you haven't felt the air or seen the light except from that window there! Your brother has been calling you nonstop! It's driving me crazy! He said he needs to talk to you urgently and that you never passed by his office!"

Sherlock looked up, facing Molly for the first time in weeks.

"You have answered my phone?"

"Of course I have answered your phone! That thing was driving me nuts, ringing all day. Now, you need to leave."

She went behind him, that was half sat, half-laid on the couch, his arms fallen to the side. She tried to pick him up holding him by his armpits but with no use. Sherlock was as skinny as one could be but still he was too heavy for Molly. She rested for a bit and he didn't even flinch. She pulled again. All she managed to do was shake him a little bit. He let himself sink on the couch even more, his pyjamas and robe dangling with the movements.

"Okay." Said Molly, facing him again, her arms crossed. "I am calling John!"

Sherlock looked at her. She had finally managed to catch his attention.

"You wouldn't." He said, unsure.

"I would." She turned around, looking for his phone and found it where she herself had left it after taking Mycroft's call, over his table, next to the computer. "I would and I will."

She searched for John's number on the list and pressed the calling key. Sherlock got up finally and Molly tried to find a way to take the phone out of his reach, but with no use. He was way too tall for her. He held her with her back against his chest and, with the free arm, took the phone from her. He then sat again.

"Sherlock Holmes." Molly said, as Sherlock checked how many times his brother had called. "I have my own phone, I can go to Mrs. Hudson, I can even call from the street. If you do not get up and go out I am calling John! I swear!"

Sherlock put the phone down, exhaling with annoyance. Molly was staring at him and waiting. She offered her hand. Sherlock knew he had no choice. He took her hand and Molly pulled him up and off the couch. He got out and headed for the door. He picked his coat and put it on. Now it was Molly's turn to roll her eyes. She got closer to him and removed his jacket, hanging it again on the back of the entrance door.

"You can't go out in your pyjamas! And you stink; you need to take a shower. I don't even want to ask you how long it has been since you last showered! Come on."

She directed him to the bathroom removing his robe and helped him get in the shower. He was behaving like a child. She took off the upper part of his pyjamas and stopped, petrified. Even though he was behaving like a child, he was no longer five years old. She let the shirt fall to the floor and backed away, still looking at him, whose expression of terror was mimicking hers perfectly.

"Okay… Erh… So I have to leave to work in a little bit. So take a shower and get dressed, I am waiting for you and then I will leave."

She then left the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She leaned for a while to the door, listening to the water starting to fall behind it. She would have trouble not to think about Sherlock's bare chest right in front of her. He was cold. And he was so skinny. His skin was pale and smooth. Molly shook her head and went to the kitchen to make some tea and instant brownies while waiting for him to get ready. He needed to eat.

Sherlock came to the kitchen, his hair still soaked. He had changed to new clothes, though, and looked like his usual self. Molly passed him a brownie as soon as he got in the kitchen. Sherlock was about to refuse but he saw the look on her face and decided to comply. He ate the brownie silently while Molly got ready to go to work. It was tasty. Very tasty indeed. He hadn't eaten right in days and he was thirsty as well. He picked a glass and filled water from the tap. He drank it all at once. Molly was searching for something on her purse. She seemed a little upset.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, rinsing the glass and leaving it on the side of the sink to dry.

Molly looked up, startled.

"What?"

"I asked if you are okay." He repeated.

"Yes, I am fine." She picked up her purse and hanged it on her shoulder, closing its zipper. "I will be leaving now. Please, go talk to your brother. He said he really needs to see you. And don't come back to the apartment right away. Go for a walk. You need some fresh air."

Sherlock breathed deeply but nodded. He would do as she asked. Her tone was a lot kinder now. Maybe he was really so smelly and that it had made her angry. Sherlock smiled. Molly turned her back, smiling back without really understanding why, and left down the stairs. Sherlock went after her, before she could leave the house.

"Hey, Molly!"

She turned around, stopping mid-step.

"Yes?"

"Is everything okay with you and…Shane?"

Molly seemed surprised with the question.

"Yes, it's fine. Perfect. He is perfect." She said. She nodded her head and left, trying to hide a sad smile.

Sherlock stood at the door for a while, trying to understand her expression and her sadness. That's what he had seen there. Sadness. He didn't like it.

He entered the apartment again, looking around. He picked up his phone and put on his coat, and went down the stairs and out of 221B Baker Street for the first time in weeks.

The sun hit his eyes and Sherlock blinked, adjusting to the noisy environment of the street. He didn't want to talk with his brother but this was something he had to do. Mycroft seemed too insistent on whatever he needed from him and Sherlock did want him to stop calling. He raised his arm and a taxi stopped, taking him to his brother's office.

Sherlock returned home a few hours later, tired and, most of all, annoyed. Mycroft did have a way to make him angry. If Sherlock did not know how busy Mycroft was he would swear his brother did it on purpose to find new ways to annoy him. Today hadn't been an exception. Asking how Molly was, trying to guess his ways in the last couple of weeks. Pretending to be interested and making small talk. Sherlock could indulge that from some people, but not from Mycroft. He knew how Sherlock hated small talk. It was no use for them to pretend to be close brothers. They were not. There were things in their past that could not be erased and Mycroft had better understand that. He had never tried to be nice to him before. Maybe polite, as Mycroft usually was, but not nice. Today he had tried to be nice, to pretend he cared. Sherlock had no idea why and, even though he had been thinking about it the whole taxi trip back to the apartment, he just couldn't understand it. It made him even angrier. He liked clear things.

Well, at least Mycroft had an interesting case for him. And, being his brother as powerful as he was, it would not be difficult for him to find what he had to look for. He just had to put all facts together. He was pretty sure that what looked like a very strange thing today would be transparent as water very soon. He just needed to think.

He walked into the apartment, removing his coat and looked at his violin. It had been played fairly often lately. Maybe more than usual. That had probably been the only thing that hasn't changed since that unlucky day at the Opera. Sherlock picked the violin, sending the memories of the day away. The way they had held hands. The smile on Molly's face. Stop it. Sherlock shook his head and started to play, going back to the song he was trying to finish composing for so long.

The melody echoed through the apartment, clean and slow; with each stroke of the bow on the strings Sherlock felt himself relax.

He was still playing the violin when he heard the door downstairs opening and closing with a bang. Sherlock stopped playing and the steps came up the stairs, heavy and hurriedly. As he looked behind, still holding the violin in his hand, Molly stormed off into the apartment and up the stairs to her room. Sherlock turned around, in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to do. He was not very good with people, not even with Molly to whom he had gotten used to in the past few months. She did seem upset when she left home to work and things didn't seem to have improved for her with the course of the afternoon. Should he go and talk to her or just leave her to herself? Did she want to be interrupted in whatever she was going through? Did she need to talk to him or just be left alone? He turned around, completely lost on what to do. He placed the violin on its stand and went up the stairs quietly.

He opened the door of the room slowly with one hand and saw her. She was sitting on the piano bench and had her head on her arms, that were placed over the piano cover. She was sobbing. Silently. Her torso moved with every sob and she tried to cover her eyes even more with her arms. She seemed abandoned. Sherlock felt his heart shrink on his chest. Molly was crying. What was he supposed to do?

Molly jumped on her bench as Sherlock touched her shoulder with his hands, making an almost unnoticed pressure on it. She breathed deeply, trying to hold the tears back. Sherlock sat down on the bench, his back facing the piano, and looked at her. Molly raised her head, in an attitude of defiance. She got up, getting away from him and the hand he had placed on hers in such a natural way that Molly felt uncomfortable.

Sherlock sensed she would not say a word unless he asked her what was wrong. She was facing the wall now, avoiding his gaze.

Without getting up he asked.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, Sherlock." She said, still not facing him. She seemed angry now. "Nothing happened."

"Well, you are crying so you are obviously upset…"

"Don't start with your annoying deductions on me now, Sherlock."

He flinched at the 'annoying deductions' but this was not a time to think about himself.

"I am sorry." He apologised. He realised that Molly was the person he had ever apologised the most in his whole life. "But you are crying and I would like to help."

"Well, but you don't, do you" She said and turned around, looking at him. "You never do. All you do is to confuse me! And to make me angry! And you have no idea how I hate myself for that! Because it's not even your fault. I mean, you are an idiot most of the time, always bored and complaining and being rude… But it would be okay! It would all be okay. But I don't hate you. I don't! I just can't bring myself to hate you, and God, have I tried! But I just can't." She opened her hands in front of herself, as if showing how hopeless all that was. "And then I realised it's my entire fault. You keep apologising, but you have nothing to apologise for. Because I am the one with a problem! And the fact that I only realised that now? That's crazy! Because I thought it was all their fault! Going out with me and them dumping me. And hurting me. And I never realised that if they haven't done that I would be the one doing it. I just never realised. And if you had any idea how crazy that is. How awful that is! I've been fooling myself all of my life and I had to find a pretty decent guy, a wonderful man, that actually loves me and has no trouble in showing it, to realise I have been the problem all along! And you have also been the problem all along! And it's so ridiculous. Because he said that he loved me. Today. And what did I have to give him in return? Nothing. A big fat bag of nothing! Empty hands and an empty heart! And I thought, in that moment, that I am you! That I do not own a heart." She stopped again, breathing and trying to compose her thoughts. "And then I came home, I left him there, heartbroken and empty handed, and I realise there is no use, because I will never love anyone else. And that makes me hate you! And I hate myself so much!"

And she started sobbing again, this time with her head hidden on her hands. She had covered her eyes and was sobbing so much, facing the wall again, facing whatever she could not to face him.

Sherlock heard all her words, trying to make sense of them. Even with all her rambling and out of context sentences he was a clever man. And he understood everything. He stepped closer to her and, once again, placed his open palm on her shoulder. Molly sobbed even more with his touch and he made her face him. She refused looking at him, so he just took a step forward and, without knowing very well how, he hugged her close. A tight hug, a hug he had never given anyone before. A hug like nobody has ever given him. Molly's body shook more but she did not pull away. She just let her hands fall to the side of her body and cried all she had to cry, soaking his shirt with her tears.

Sherlock pulled away after a while and Molly looked up, her mouth still twitching in an unhappy arch. He looked into her eyes. They were shiny and red and tears dangled from her eyelashes. And still, she was so beautiful. He held her face with both his hands and, without making sense of what he was doing, of why he was doing it, he pulled her closer and placed his lips on hers. His eyes were still open and he saw Molly reacting immediately. Her hand held his arm and her eyes closed and she let him kiss her like that, just as gently as he could, his lips placed on hers. He tried to make his heart rate slow down but realised it wouldn't. Then, as Molly responded to the kiss, he wasn't thinking anymore. He felt, somehow, the need to close his eyes and all he could feel now were only her lips on his, and it felt strange and right. For the first time since he knew himself, he did not question. He just let himself go.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock tried to even his own breath. Molly lips were still on his. He was doing things instinctively but somehow it seemed just right. He felt that, as an opposition to that time long ago, at John's wedding, when he had guided her through the dance floor, it was Molly now who was guiding him. He was still holding her face with both his hands, feeling her wet cheeks on his fingers. He responded as Molly's mouth parted his lips gently. Her tongue felt warm in his and suddenly every cell in his body was aching for her. If he had not been a man of the mind he would swear he was sinking on her.

A long time went by and Molly backed away slightly and slowly. She looked up at his face, her heart beating as fast as his. Sherlock had not opened his eyes. He kept them close, still feeling her taste on his mouth. His legs were shaking but he managed to stand. Molly felt the same way; her heart racing as if she had ran for hours. The butterflies on her stomach moved in frenzy, a frenzy she had never felt before, not with anyone, not even with Sherlock. It was different this time. To have him so close. She had dreamt with this so many times. Dreamt and fantasized and still, it was more perfect than she could have ever imagined. He was so gentle, so delicate. So profound.

She placed her hand on the middle of his chest, right where his heart was. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at her, relishing on her lovely features. Molly's gaze met his and she could not be sure if his heart was beating as fast as hers, because it was impossible to define to whom belonged the beating she felt banging on her hears and felt underneath her hand. She hanged on his gaze for what seemed an eternity but her heart begged for more. He was taller, too tall, immensely tall for her hunger. She raised her chin, getting closer to him again, her hand still resting on his chest. Sherlock, sensing her need and just because he could not supress his, lowered his own head and held her hand, interlacing his fingers on hers. He kissed her again, still gently and leisurely, parting his lips to meet hers. Molly held him with the hand she had free, feeling the ribs that moved with his breath, underneath the fabric of the shirt he was wearing. She pulled him closer and he grabbed her back, his chest against hers. Kissing her was like riding a rollercoaster when it comes down after it reaches the top; the feeling on his belly was the same. Like he was riding faster and faster and he did not want to stop. The hair on his neck prickled up when Molly passed her hand through his hair, playing with the curls between her delicate fingers. Her fingers felt the buttons of his shirt and she started to work on them, as fast as she could, because all she seemed able to focus on was the way he kissed her now. Molly managed to remove his shirt and to get away from his lips, that came after hers, hungry as well. She looked at his bare chest, examining it. His uneven breath made it even more beautiful. She was blushing now and looked up, kissing him again. Sherlock answered immediately but backed away for a while, looking into her eyes with a passion she had never seen before.

"Molly." He managed to blurt out, choking on the words.

She looked at him, waiting.

"What is it?" She whispered. She did not want to break the enchantment.

Sherlock looked down at his own feet.

"Is just that, I…" Molly tried to make him look at her but he wouldn't. "I have never…"

He looked up finally, an expression of hope in his face, expecting her to understand. Molly was confused. Sherlock tried again.

"I just have never…" He did not want to say the words. He didn't want to admit it. What would she make of him?

Molly saw the gears on his brain starting to work again. She didn't want his brain to work. She wanted him like he was being right now. No mind. Just emotions. She pulled closer again, deciding that whatever he was trying to tell her, he would eventually. Now this was more important than anything in the entire world. She asked for his lips again and he complied, with no hesitation. 'I am a man of the mind.' He repeated to himself. I am a man of the mind.' 'I am…' The words got lost as he thought them.

For the first time he allowed himself to insert his hand under Molly's shirt, feeling the bare skin of her back under his fingers. It was magical. An electrical feeling went through his limbs. He knew the theory, wouldn't it work like that? He pulled Molly's shirt up and removed it. Her tied hair was all messed up and he smoothed it with his hand, removing the ribbon she had tied so neatly. They undressed each other and Sherlock thought he could not get enough of kissing her. When Molly put herself in front of him naked she lowered her head, avoiding looking at him and blushing. Sherlock smiled, amused and amazed. She was perfect with all her little things. The hair fell on her breasts and she looked up, unsure. He, aware of his own nudity, pulled her close.

"Molly Hooper, you are the most exquisite thing I have ever seen." He whispered.

Molly smiled, still looking down at her hands placed on his chest. This time he reached for her lips and played with her tongue, enjoying the effect that had in his and Molly's body.

She drove him to her bed and they kissed and discovered each other, with languid movements, for an immense time, devouring each other's skin and getting lost in the hours of the day.

0

Moly's head went up and down with Sherlock's chest movements. She could now hear his heart beating fast still, even if it had been hours. He was playing with her hair and looking at the light that came from the ceiling. It was slowly fading away, bringing darkness as time passed. Molly shivered and he covered her with the blanket, brushing his fingers kindly on her naked arm. She looked up. The curls of his hair were all dishevelled and he looked so irresistibly defenceless. He smiled at her and gave her a kiss on the forehead, asking her if she was feeling okay. Molly nodded and they talked for hours and hours, until the stars in the sky began to shine and the street lights were lit up. Despite the conversation, the mood had not been ruined. It was easy and sweet. Molly looked at him, right in his eyes and Sherlock felt the same electric feeling. He pulled her up so that their mouths could be at the same level and smiled, unable to control his heart again. Molly leaned on him and kissed him passionately this time. She had now, after hours of reflection and reminiscences, understood what he had tried to tell her before. And what she could conclude, as he kissed every little bit of her neck and shoulders, making her twist against his bare body, was that Sherlock Holmes was a quick and efficient learner.


	18. Chapter 18

The light entered the ceiling window, spreading the sun all over the room. Molly moved on the bed, her head against the pillow and she tried to bring herself to consciousness. There was a warm feeling in her heart and she smiled, opening her eyes slowly, allowing the light to get into them without hurting. She focused her sight, staring at the piano. She would gladly continue to sleep, lost in the nostalgia of the recent events. She spread her hand to the side, without moving her head. She wanted to be sure it hadn't all been a dream. Her hand looked among the sheets and blankets but couldn't find anything but an empty bed. She looked to the side, raising her head and shoulders. He was gone. Sherlock had left sometime during the night and she hadn't even noticed it.

She looked at herself. She was not dressed, so it couldn't have been a dream. She got up, putting her pyjamas on and looking around the room once more. He had left his violin there, at the bottom of the bed, on the floor. Maybe he was making breakfast for both. Molly tried to send the bad thoughts away. Yes, it had to be it. She sat at the bed, thinking. The night before had been so… pure, beautiful. For the first time she had felt that her hunger for love had been satiated. That all her longing and wait had not been in vain. Sherlock had been hers and she had been his. She got up and went down the stairs, straightening up her hair with a hand. In the living room the light from outside came through the window, partially blocked by the curtains that were still drawn. She stopped and listened. She realised, without a doubt now, that she was all alone. Just to be sure she checked everywhere. His room, the bathroom. Nothing. No one. Just her and the empty house. She entered the kitchen to see an empty table and no water on the kettle nor toasts on the toaster. There was no message either. Molly took a deep breath and took her hands to her head, trying hard not to cry. Maybe it was nothing, maybe it was just Sherlock being Sherlock and maybe he had just left to come back without thinking she would wake up in the meantime. Maybe he would think that night was not a mistake but a wonderful thing, like she did. Still, as she left to the bathroom to take a shower and get dressed to work, she couldn't help but feeling in her heart that something was very wrong. That, in spite of all that had happened and the fact she thought her days of loneliness and sadness were over, she might have been wrong after all.

0

Sherlock had woken up very early. The sun had just started to appear in the horizon but the stars and moon were still visible in the sky. He had woken up from a rare sleep without dreams and it took him a few moments to realise where and what he was doing. As he tried to move he felt something on his chest. He looked down and saw Molly, holding on to him, lost in her own blissful sleep. Sherlock's mind associated immediately what he was seeing with what had happened. The first thought that crossed his mind was 'wrong.' Then the feeling of guiltiness embraced him, like an old lost friend. Seeing Molly in his arms, so defenceless and rested made him realise that it hadn't been a good decision. He had been so sure the night before, when she was crying and he held her in his arms. She was so vulnerable and he had forgotten his mind, his hunger for rationality. He had been led by a whim of his heart. But now, as he gazed at her, all had vanished. What did he feel for Molly, in truth? Could he even feel anything at all? He searched in his own mind for the answer. No. He couldn't. Molly was a friend. A precious stone that would break if he didn't handle it right. He was not the man to handle her. He was not compassionate and caring. Molly would never be happy with him. It was not that he did not like her. He did. Didn't he? Yes, he did. But, being the way he was, he would end up making her miserable. He was selfish and anti-social. He sometimes said things he thought were acceptable but apparently, according to the patterns of society, weren't. Molly did not deserve that. She didn't. He was a cold glass, she was fire. It could never work.

He tried to sneak out of bed, removing her weight from his body to the bed. She was sleeping profoundly, with even breaths and a smile on her lips. She didn't notice as he put on his clothes and left the room, holding the door to take a last look at her. Molly deserved a better man.

He sat on the couch of the living room, reminiscing. He couldn't get away from the way her skin felt on his. From the delicacy of her fingers on his shoulders… He opened his eyes, staring outside and focusing. Now he understood why people were so easily driven from their purposes, threw everything away for lust. It was easy to succumb to the needs of one's body, to the self-indulgence of someone looking into our eyes and making us see a world of beauty. To the majesty of love. But he refused to be one of those. He refused to let his emotions, this ache and this passion take over his thoughts and actions. He refused to be dragged in the tide that was this feeling people sought so desperately. Love was nothing but a trick of the mind. Wasn't it? He got up. His mind was twisting like never before, unable to focus. There was only one person who could help him in this case, how strange that might seem. He needed to see him.

He put on his coat and left the apartment, his mind far away now. Upstairs, unaware of the revolution inside Sherlock's brain, Molly was turning around, grabbing the sheets and relishing on the scent his skin had left on them.

0

Molly finished taking her breakfast alone and put everything on the sink, to wash later. She would have now to face Shane. She didn't regret broken up with him the day before. If she had continued with the relationship she would just be putting off something that was inevitable. And she would have hurt him and herself even more.

She picked up her purse, looking around the flat again, wishing that Sherlock not being around to tell her good morning was not related to her. Somehow, she doubted it. The thought of returning home after work to face him scared her more than she could say.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock took a cab and gave the address to the driver. He observed the world outside the window. People going on with their affairs, unaware of the world around them. It must be so easy to be like that. Ordinary. Simple. To just walk around and want what the society defined as normal. To feel and give and pretend to care. To have a rested mind that sought no further. How relaxing.

His eyes were always paying attention, understanding what they saw instead of simply looking. Making sense of the world. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. Sometimes it was tiring being him. But the alternative was so… boring, devoid of excitement. And all the twists and turn his mind was making bothered him. He did not want this, he did not need it. He wanted focus and rationality. He liked things that were factual.

He got out of the taxi and entered the building, somewhat reluctant. The secretary that received him was typing a few words in a very slow motion. She was even worse than John. Sherlock had given his message to her but she took her time to deliver it to the recipient. Sherlock tried to conceal his impatience and finally she got up, looking at Sherlock and smiling. A few moments later the door of the office opened up and she urged him to enter the room. Sherlock did so and the secretary closed the door behind her, leaving him alone. He looked at the mahogany desk in the middle of the room and at the man behind it. He never thought he would ever be in this situation, in this room, asking for some kind of help from this man. If anyone had told him that this was about to happen a few years ago Sherlock would have laughed in their face and dismissed it immediately. And yet, here he was today, looking at his own brother.

"Dear bother." Mycroft said, getting up and gazing at him from head to toe. "Oh, not here for what I was expecting. Not my case." And he made a small pause. "Miss Molly Hooper then. I see what happened."

Sherlock did not question how he knew. The intelligence and power of deduction of his brother exceeded his own sometimes, as hard as it was for him to admit it. He had gotten used to his brother methods, quite different from his. Mycroft was, however, a little bit more reserved in showing his knowledge. He didn't look for applause. It was merely a skill. He and Sherlock were as different as two sides of a coin. Still, in one thing, they were exactly the same. Sentiment. The lack of it. Or were they? From what Sherlock could tell he was here now to ask for advice to his older brother in this matter, a matter he had never needed advice before and never thought he would.

"Yes." Sherlock said, speaking for the first time that day. His voice was rusty and he repeated the words. "Yes. I am here because of Molly."

"Well, you may sit down; there is no need to stand there. I never thought the day would come in which my little brother would come to me for advice in such a mundane matter."

Sherlock looked at his own feet. Maybe this was indeed a bad idea. Mycroft would not understand.

Mycroft recognized the look on Sherlock's face.

"Oh, don't feel abashed, I didn't mean it that way. I am sorry."

Sherlock furrowed. The apology his brother had made was a sincere one. He nodded.

"Love is indeed a mundane thing, as everybody knows about it. And feels about it. And talks and writes about it. It's an ordinary thing. There's no shame in that." And Mycroft took a sip of his tea that was cooling down. "So, what brings you here? I mean, I know the subject but I am still trying to figure out the real matter."

Sherlock swallowed hard, avoiding his brother's gaze.

"I just don't know what to do."

That, put so simple, made all the sense in Mycroft's clever mind. It was that simple. Indeed, wasn't it? That was always the problem; people didn't know what to do. Or how to do it. It all came down to that. Even a man with the mind of his brother had been caught up on the trap. Ah, love, what an amazing thing! A simple trick, a mixture of biology and our own fantasies to ruin it all! It was obvious what had happened between Molly and his brother. Sherlock had come down first thing in the morning, dishevelled hair and unshaved for the first time in his life. The black circles underneath his eyes were different from the ones Sherlock usually wore when lost without sleep for days due to a case. Yes. Who would have said that the sweet young lady he had met at St. Bart's would be the one to break the wall and take the prize? Interesting indeed. Mycroft was curious about how she had done it. What kind of weapons had she used inadvertently? Yes, because Mycroft did not believe that Molly had seduced his brother. No. it was not her personality to do such thing, and Sherlock was not one to be seduced in an ordinary way. Irene Adler had tried and had not succeeded. Not in the physical terms. Irene was right in one thing, at least when it came to Sherlock: brainy was indeed the new sexy. So, how had Molly worked it out? Had she really touched his brother heart strings – if he had any and Mycroft knew better than anyone that he did – in such a way that he had fallen for her? Vulnerability, he understood. Molly needed a hero and Sherlock had fallen for it. Maybe John had had a deeper effect in him that Mycroft could have ever guessed. Mycroft sighed. This was an intricate puzzle. His brother had been a fool.

"So you came here to know what I have to say about the matter. To ask me what you should do?"

Sherlock nodded slightly. It was quite embarrassing but he was incapable of giving reason to his own thoughts. He needed someone to think for him. But not just anyone. Someone like himself.

"You do know that the decision shall be yours and I will not be held responsible for whatever you may choose, nor will I condemn you if you prefer not to follow my advice. I will, nevertheless, tell you what I believe and what I think. Don't take my words as universal prove. There are thousands of people out there who are happy with being in love. Who need it to function and lead normal lives with it. My own experience is not vast, but I am afraid you may miss a point or two if I don't explain the matter at hand to you like this." Mycroft took another sip from his cup, finishing the tea and looking at his younger brother again. Sherlock did not look back at him. He was listening attentively. Mycroft proceeded. "Miss Hooper is, from what I had the chance to observe, a nice person. Sweet, but courageous. Decent. Just like many out there. At first, it surprised me you didn't go to John for advice. But then again, John is not like us, was not raised like us and does not function like us. He works exactly like Molly. Same qualities, principles, same basic features, personalities. Good kinds." Mycroft stopped again, putting his thoughts together. "The thing about love, Sherlock, is that it makes us vulnerable, susceptible. It blurs our judgement and eventually, willingly or not, we end up hurting the objects of our affection. It's impossible not to. A word in the passion of the moment, an act… we become responsible for someone else and ordinary people, tough different, all go down to the same basic principle. The need to protect and be protected. How do you protect someone else and yourself without hurting them or getting hurt? You don't, Sherlock. And allow me to leave all humility behind right now. We both have great minds. People around us will bore us eventually. We will get tired and we will want to end it. Not because we need a replacement, no. But because our thirst for what is rational will always overcome our desire for sentiment. Our minds will always rule over our body, our heart. I told you once that caring was not an advantage. I wasn't trying to assure you that you are not a freak, that nothing is wrong with you – with us. I meant every word." Sherlock felt Mycroft's gaze searching for his and he finally raised his head. "Tell me, when the time comes and Miss Hooper asks more of you, will you be ready to give it to her? Will you be willing to let go, to give up on your things to concede on any of her whims? Will you be able to act in society in an accepted way, in order to avoid embarrassing her in front of other people? When two people are together they always have to give up on something about themselves. They have to stop being selfish and thinking only for themselves and, instead, shape to the person they're with. Do you think you can provide Miss Hooper with that? With the future she may be imagining as in now? Nobody can be sad forever, take things they don't agree with forever. She will want you to change; she will need you to change. Are you willing to do so? And even if you are, do you believe you will be able to do so? Wanting and doing are two very different things. Or, as time goes by, your intentions will become only that, intentions?

Don't get me wrong, I do believe you like her. And she likes you, definitively. I would actually use the word adores you. So, if you do like her, you should do your best to assure she remains happy. It may look foolish but it is, in fact, quite the opposite. She will thank you later and you will be, eventually, thankful as well. There is no use in trying to be something you are not. One day, the mask will fall. And regret can't be erased, Sherlock. Save Miss Hooper even a bigger heart ache than the one she is feeling right now, let her find someone she loves and loves her back. Life isn't always about great loves, sometimes it is about balance and stability and she needs that. Maybe she will never be absolutely over you. But at least she will have the chance to, because you will provide her with that."

Sherlock thought for a long time, his hands closed together resting on his chin.

"How did you get married?" He asked his brother. The question had always bothered him but he was not the kind to discuss it with Mycroft.

"Oh, that." Mycroft smiled. It was not a true smile, but a sad one. "I do believe I loved her, you know? When we met. She was wonderful. The cleverest girl I have ever met. Witty, acertive. And she was convenient, too. Good families, good future. Just the right girl to someone like me. But it all resumed to what I have just told you. I was not willing to give up on my career for her. Actually, I was not willing to give up on anything for her. That worked on her like time works on iron. She became bitter and we became strangers. We continued with our façade however, but I am not even for a moment deluded; we both hurt each other pretty much. And I hurt her the most. I still do. There is not a day I don't look into her eyes and I don't see regret in them. Not regret for the life we built and for being with me, no. But regret for the fact she could not maintain the man she fell in love with. As if it was any of her fault. I broke her in ways no one can ever fix her. She loves me still, you see. That's the problem. She could go on and have affairs and, in her own way, be happy, but she was always too faithful and loved me too much to do so. She is a great woman and she does not deserve that. I know it well. But, I am the way I am, and I cannot avoid it. I am not just rambling those words to the wind, dear brother. I know what I am talking about. If I could turn time around and go back, well…. I can't."

And Mycroft finished his lecture with a faint smile, compassion for his brother showing in his eyes. Sherlock got up, a serious face.

"Thank you." Was all he was able to say.

Mycroft nodded. As Sherlock opened the door he added.

"You will put her at risk too. People like us will always have enemies. When they want to knock us down they take what they think affect us more. Remember that."

Sherlock didn't say anything at all. He closed the door behind himself and left to the street, his mind set on the words his brother had just said.

Mycroft stood there, staring at the door his brother had just closed. A tear fell down his hardened face. He felt something on his chest, an ache for his younger brother and also pride that he had finally come to him. Mycroft realised now that, after all, and despite all he had said to Sherlock, he had a heart that cared. It was not, in any way, an advantage but he made a mental note to buy his wife some flowers on the way home.


	20. Chapter 20

Molly walked through the door of the apartment and up the stairs, ready to face the man that had occupied her thoughts the whole day. Work went as bad as she expected. Shane was a lot quieter ad she felt so ashamed with it all that it was hard enough to stay in the same room as he was. He had talked with her during lunch break and said he understood. He did not blame her. In that moment, after thanking him, Molly had disappeared to the bathroom before the tears betrayed her. How could she have hurt him so much? Beginning that relationship had been her worst mistake but she could have not guessed what happened. She had definitively liked him. He was caring and sweet. But, as she eventually realised, he would always be put to comparison with Sherlock.

Molly closed her eyes as she put her purse on the couch, looking around the apartment. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, looking through the window. The light entered in the room, concealing half of his face in shadow. He looked to the side when he noticed her presence in the room. The look in his eyes said everything Molly needed to know. It was over. Done. Even before it had begun.

She approached him, sitting on the chair opposite him and waited for him to talk.

"That used to be my chair." He said.

Molly didn't understand. She frowned.

"Before you moved in. That used to be my chair. But you seemed to like it and always sat there, so I let you stay with it."

His face was pale and more serious than Molly had ever seen.

"I am sorry." She said, getting up. "I can…"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said, pointing the chair at her so she could sit again. He then pushed his own chair closer to her until their knees touched. Sherlock held Molly's hands in his. His fingers were long and thin and felt cold on hers now. She still felt the electric current she always did when he touched her.

"I am so sorry, Molly." He apologised.

Molly wished he was more specific about what he was sorry. Them making love? Not loving her anymore, if he ever had, hurting her again? Leaving her alone in the morning? She understood what he meant, though. It was probably it all together. She raised her head.

"Well, I am not." She said.

Her defiant eyes met Sherlock's.

"What happened was… better than I ever imagined."

"No, it's not it. I don't regret what happened…" Sherlock cut his own speech. He swallowed and continued. "Not really. What I mean is, I can't do this. I can't be your… I cannot provide you with the life you need, with the… kind of love you need. I am not that man. I won't be able to make you happy, Molly. Trust me, I know myself. And I want you to be happy. I care about you. I always did. And I can't put myself in the position of seeing your heart breaking and…"

"Well, it's a little too late for that, isn't Sherlock?"

Molly got up, removing her hands from his. She was mad now. Sherlock followed her with his gaze, a sad look on his face. He got up as well and stopped behind her. She had her back turned to him and she kept like that.

"I know I should have never have done what I did. I was caught up in the moment, I am so sorry. Please, forgive me." He said, his voice overflowing with regret.

"No." Molly said, staring at the smiley face painted with yellow ink on the wall and allowing her tears to fall down her eyes freely. "It has always been too late. I created this sentiment, this idea in my mind and… I always loved you. I fell in love with you so long ago, and you have always been so mean to me. So, it is in fact my entire fault. I broke my own heart for you even before you did it, Sherlock. I thought that with what we have been sharing and the things you have been doing lately…. Well, that you could have changed. But, honestly, I don't think I should have for once believed that. I just wanted to fool myself. I saw what I wanted to see. It was better than any alternative."

Sherlock put his hand on her shoulder and Molly got away from his touch, turning to him.

"You should try loving someone sometimes, you know? It doesn't always have to be a river of tears and pain. It's actually a very good thing. Of course it isn't like movies and TV commercials but all in all it is worthy. To feel vulnerable and to feel so happy that your heart seems to want to get away from your chest because it became so big. It's a gift, not a weakness, no matter what you believe in." She looked at him in the eyes. "But then again, what do I know about it? I have never been loved before. And the first person who actually seemed to love me was sent away by me because I couldn't love him back. I am no better than you, apparently."

She dried her tears with the tips of her fingers and faced him again. Sherlock understood now what Mycroft meant when he had said Molly was courageous. She was. Sherlock could see her breaking right in front of him and still she was looking him in the eye with a determination he had never seen.

She knew there was no use in trying to change Sherlock's mind and, in truth, it was not worth it. If he did love her, he would have to be the one to get to that conclusion by himself. Molly put herself on the tips of her toes. Carefully and gently she kissed his lips, just placing hers on top of his. A quick thing, closing her eyes for a second. Sherlock froze in place.

"Thank you." She said back on her feet,, taking a deep breath.

"What for?" Sherlock whispered, unable to find more of his own voice.

"For everything. For helping me with the piano. I have been playing more songs and will continue. For listening to me and for accepting me here when I had nowhere to go. For opening up to me the way you did yesterday night, for sharing all those stories. And for listening mine. Really listen, not just pretending. And for, if only for a brief moment, loving me." She placed a hand on his chest, right where is heart was beating furiously. "There's a heart here somewhere, I know there is. I found it last night. I hope you find it too someday."

Sherlock watched her go up the stairs, the tears streaming down her eyes again. He had placed his hand on his chest but Molly had gone away before he could even touch hers. He felt the beating, unsteady. That proved he had a heart indeed, didn't it? Then, why did he feel like, in spite of the physical and biological prove, that he could sense on the palm of his hand, there was nothing but a big hole there?


	21. Chapter 21

Time went by. Molly learnt to live with Sherlock's presence, trying to forget all they had shared. Sherlock went back to his normal self. The friendship continued, though. Molly still sat on his chair and read her books and more than once fell asleep on the couch to wake up on her own bed. Sherlock got used to make tea for both after dinner, a gesture of peace. They used to play the violin and piano together, him on the living room and she upstairs, like before. Sometimes he would go up and meet her and they would play together for a long time. Molly hadn't forgotten, the feelings she had always felt for him were still there, untouched. But she had learnt to avoid them when necessary. Shane had finished the stage and had found a job in another hospital. They kept in touch and went out for dinner sometimes, but he never tried to get her back and Moly was happy with that. Sherlock would sometimes disappear to take care of his cases, working for Mycroft or Inspector Lestrade and sometimes to private clients, when the case was interesting. John helped whenever he could and he would have dinner there sometimes as well, but mostly the only people on the apartment were Molly and Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson paid a visit sometimes but she was now carefree about the flat. Molly would take good care of it and always made sure Sherlock ate at least one time per day. Her work was now the same and again alone and Sherlock would show up sometimes, always making sure his charm worked on her, to have anything he found necessary. He had taken fish and chips a few more times for lunch and had keep her company. That had been nice.

Also for Sherlock it was still strange to share the days with Molly after all that had happened, but he focused on his work and on the words he had heard from Mycroft and he knew it was all for the best. He had given up on his smoking habit for good, recurring to one nicotine patch one time or another, when the lack of cases bored him to death. He had, somehow, become a calmer person, Molly had helped in that. He tried not to hurt her as much as he could and tried, at least to her, to be polite. Well, most of the time, not always. But Molly was already so used to his moodiness that she didn't really feel offended anymore. She would just shrug the words away and move on. She had learnt that ignoring him was the best solution. He would eventually quiet down.

Molly hadn't seen Sherlock for a couple of days straight. She knew he was on to a new case and that when that happened he could not rest until he cracked it. Two nights before she saw him pacing around the apartment, looking for a solution. Then she had suggested something and he had stopped on his spot, grabbed her by both arms and spun her around, finishing with a kiss on the cheek. He had then stormed out of the apartment to never show up again. He had still not returned home when she left for work in the morning but had left a note, which suggested he had come home during the night, when she was sleeping. She had finished her work for the day and, from the silence of the house, he hadn't yet returned.

Molly placed her purse on the couch, as she usually did and picked up the package she had fetched on the way from work. She checked Sherlock's room, to make sure she was alone. She put the kettle on and took a deep breath. She decided to took a shower, avoiding what she had to do. Dried her hair and brushed it. She came to the kitchen and made a tea, heating up the water again. Her hands were trembling and she threw more than a half full cup on the sink, unable to finish the tea. There was no use in delaying it. She locked herself in the bathroom and removed the test from the box, following the instructions. A few minutes later she curled up on the cold floor of the bathroom, her head between her knees, considering that, if she didn't see them, maybe the two pink stripes on the indicator would simply disappear.

0

Sherlock arrived home a few hours later, satisfied with the case he had just solved. What a beauty of a murder! Clever and almost perfect. If the police hadn't come to him they would have never found the assassin. He was thrilled and ecstatic! He almost swirled about himself as he hanged his long coat on the handle behind the door and kept the gloves away, one in each pocket. Only when he was removing the scarf did he notice Molly's presence in the flat. She was curled up on the chair, her knees to her chest and her arms hugging her legs. She didn't look at him when he entered the apartment. In fact, she did not seem to have noticed him at all. He approached her carefully and touched her arm, kneeling close to the chair. Molly's big eyes gazed upon him.

"Are you okay?" He asked, a genuine worry in his expression.

Moly did not say anything. She bit her lip and passed him the positive pregnancy test. Sherlock held the little piece of plastic she was giving him but did not understand.

"What is this?" He asked, afraid of her reaction.

Molly let go of her legs and stood up, getting close to the window. She plucked on the strings of his violin and mumbled something Sherlock was unable to decipher. She realised her voice had been too low for him to listen and repeated.

"I am pregnant, Sherlock."

She let a sigh, crossing her arms.

Sherlock looked at her and at the piece of plastic in his hand that he understood now was a pregnancy test. The two pink stripes must mean it was positive. He froze in place.

"You're…"

"Pregnant. Yes." Molly repeated, still not able to look at him.

"But," Sherlock asked, frowning. "Who?"

Molly turned around, facing him for the first time.

"What do you mean?"

"Who is the father?"

Molly sensed fear in the way he asked and she realised he just wanted to hear the words from her mouth. In fact, he already knew the answer.

"It's you, Sherlock. You're the father."

She bit her lip again, supressing the tears from falling from her eyes. God, crying seemed like something she kept doing the last few months.

Sherlock looked at the pregnancy test again and then at her and at her belly.

"But, how?"

"You know very well how, Sherlock."

Despite the desperation Molly couldn't help but roll her eyes. She looked at him. Sherlock was the vivid image of a child who doesn't know what to do with what he was put in his hands. It went far beyond shock, it was fear. He had panicked.

"I am going to have the child." She announced, making sure he understood.

"Of course you will."

The words came out of Sherlock's mouth before he realised it. His mind was a big wild swirl of thoughts. He didn't know what to make of it. He could not give them proper sense. He dind't know what to do, what to say, what to think. Molly was pregnant. With his child. He was going to be a father. He stood there for an infinite amount of time, looking straight at Molly without really seeing her.

Molly got closer to him, taking the test from his hand and holding it in hers. She then went to her room and left him there alone, to give him a chance to absorb it all.

She came down the stairs about an hour later, a little less nervous. It all came down to it. She was going to have a baby. His baby. She knew it wouldn't be easy, but she was not one to give up. Sherlock was still in the same place she had left him. For what she could see he hand't moved an inch.

"Sherlock?" She called, taking a step towards him.

She grabbed his arms and turned him to her. His eyes were red. Had he been crying? Was it so bad to him that, for the first time, Sherlock Holmes had cried?

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple moving up and down. He seemed to get out of the state he had been for the last hour.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

"No, I don't think I am."

He sat down now, and she sat beside him, scrutinizing his features.

"I…" He choked on the words. "I was not… I was not prepared for this."

Her heart sank deeply and she closed her eyes for a brief moment.

"Neither was I." She raised her chin to him, in an attitude of defiance. "But it is my child now and, even unprepared, you know what I will do? I will have it and I will love it with all my heart. With or without you."

Sherlock got up, passing by her and took off, not even bothering to put on his coat. Molly let herself fall on the chair, holding her still flat belly. She would not cry for him again. No, not now, not anymore. She had a life inside of her that deserved her happiness.

Sherlock went to the street, pacing fast and with no fixed destiny. He didn't know what he was feeling right now. Feelings was not something he was used to define. Scared? Yes. Worried? Very. Of all things, of all news, this would have been the last one he would expect. Molly pregnant. With his baby. Father. He repeated the word in his head until it stopped making sense. How was he supposed to raise a child? Kids needed love, didn't they? Someone who cared? Would he be able to do that? He had once heard John saying how you are supposed to leave all your needs aside and think about your child's needs. To stop thinking about yourself in the first place. He wouldn't be able to do that. Babies were supposed to cry and throw tantrums and be noisy all the time. And they needed taking care of. What was he going to do with a baby? His baby. He would not know how to hold it or feed it. And, most important, would he be able to love it?

He put his head between his hands, trying to stop the questions from coming to his head. He then realised he hadn't brought his wallet with him and there was someone he needed to see. John, he needed to see John. Only he would be able to clear his mind and tell him the right thing to do. As he stepped away in the direction of John's working place he could not help but imagining what kind of father he would become.


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock walked into the consulting room without even stopping as the receptionist behind the entrance desk called him, saying he couldn't just walk in like that. He searched for the name of the doctors on the tags placed next to each door and found easily the one he was looking for. John H. Watson.

He opened the door, not even bothering to knock. John was writing a prescription and talking to the patient, an old lady.

"I need you to get out now." Sherlock said as he grabbed the lady's arm and began to guide her out of the consulting room.

"No. What? Sherlock!" John got up and removed Sherlock's hand from the lady. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I need to talk to you."

"Well, I am in the middle of a consultation." John pointed out the lady that looked even more confused than him.

"It's important." Sherlock insisted.

"Yes, I am sure it is. But so is my patient." John grabbed Sherlock's arm and put him out of the consulting room, closing the door on his face and turning the bolt as Sherlock tried to complain.

Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do but wait. He could throw the door down but that would only get him arrested and that was the last thing he needed right now.

After less than ten minutes, in which Sherlock managed to send away the receptionist that had come after him, and paced from side to side impatiently, the door finally opened and John said his goodbyes to the patient.

He incited Sherlock to get inside.

"What the hell was that about? You can't just walk in here when I am in the middle of a consultation and ask my patients to leave. No matter how important the matter you come to talk to me about is, which I doubt it is all that important, you can't just…"

"Molly's pregnant." Sherlock blurted out, realising John would not shut up so easily.

The doctor looked at him.

"What?"

"Molly is pregnant." Sherlock said the words again, slowly.

"But. Who? How did she? I thought she had broken up with that chap? The one that worked with her?"

"She did."

"Then, how? I mean, she didn't know?" Comprehension seemed to hit John. "Oh, he will not have her? Or doesn't he know yet? Poor Molly."

Sherlock shook his head, incredibility crossing his face. John could be so thick sometimes.

"John!" Sherlock interrupted, as John proceeded with his ramblings. "You don't understand."

"I don't understand what?"

"I am the father."

John blinked repeatedly and then scoffed.

"Come on!" He said, staring at Sherlock, waiting for him to explain the joke. But Sherlock was not exactly the jokey type. "Wait a second. You're the father? How?"

"You, better than anyone, should know how, John."

Sherlock was starting to get upset at John's attitude. He had come here in search for help.

"You and Molly… did it? When? Oh my God, this is like… what?"

Sherlock shook his head. John was acting like a hysterical teenager just when he needed him to act more like himself.

"Yes, we…" Sherlock cut his own sentence. "Listen, it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't matter? Are you kidding me? This is like the most amazing thing I heard in years. You and Molly getting it on. And now she's pregnant. Priceless!"

"No!" Sherlock shouted again, losing his temper. "It was not like that, okay? It was once and it was special!"

The words blurted out, untamed. John stopped on his feet, looking at his best friend. He could not help but make a silly smile on the face of all the events. Molly. The sweet Molly had gotten Sherlock in a way nobody had ever before. 'Way to go, Molly,' he thought.

"Okay, I am sorry." He apologised to Sherlock, trying to keep a straight face. "Let's… let's sit down." He sat on his chair and Sherlock sat opposite him. He couldn't stop moving his legs. John saw how nervous he was. "Tell me everything."

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"I got home today; I hadn't seen her in two days, been busy with a case. And she was sitting on the chair, very quiet. She had this positive pregnancy test and… Well, it's mine."

He gazed into John's eyes a he said that and John saw something that he did not expect. Sherlock was terrified. He was neither angry nor desperate about the new situation. He was just afraid.

"Well, congrats!" John said. "You are going to be a daddy. What are you so scared about?"

Sherlock looked at John as if he was an alien.

"How can I not be?"

"Well, there's really not much to be scared about. I mean, you won't suffer from morning sickness, or swollen feet. You don't even have to worry about giving birth. So you can just chill and make sure she is happy for the whole nine months. She may get moody, though. Buy her lots of ice cream and tell her she looks beautiful every day. Oh, and foot massages. If you do that you will be just fine. She may scream at you sometimes if you do not help her, or if she is in lot of pain, or unconfortable due to the heat, but she will then apologised and everything will be okay."

John did not understand.

"What if I can't take care of the baby?"

John dismissed the idea.

"You are a very clever man, and I am sure it is far easier than finding out all about 243 tobacco ashes. All a child needs is protection and love. And Molly is there, she will teach you everything you need to know." John studied his face. "What is really worrying you? For real? Why are you so scared?"

Sherlock did not want to say the words. They seemed so vacant and selfish.

"What if… We are not together, you know? Me and Molly? When we… made love, I told her I could not be with her. That I wasn't good for her. And now it's this and I don't know what to do about it. What if I can't love it?"

"It?" John asked.

"The baby." Sherlock explained.

"Don't be ridiculous. For some reason you were led to believe you do not own a heart, that you do not care. Well, let me tell you something new, Sherlock. You do have it. And if you want to, you can make it work. Actually, from what you just told me, you have just done it all by yourself. Do you really think you would care about loving that baby if you did not possess a heart? Feelings? Stop being so hard on yourself and give yourself a break. I know how hard it is for you to let go of your defences, but you will have to do it now, you know? You said you are not with Molly because you don't think you are good for her. Don't you see how much that says? Of course you will be able to love your baby. How can you not?"

"I am not very good with kids."

"Trust me, when it becomes your kids instead of just the kids, things change. You can't help it."

Sherlock took a deep breath, looking outside the small window on the side of the consulting room. Was John right?

"What about Molly? What do I do?"

"The right thing, Sherlock. Do the right thing."

Sherlock left the building a few minutes later, not sure if the conversation had been for the best or worse. He was now revolving the words John had told him in his head. Back and forth. Do the right thing.

He walked the distance to the flat by foot again, using the time he had to get there to put his thoughts in place. There really wasn't much he could do. And how bad could it be?

He opened the door and got up the stairs, entering the living room. The light outside was starting to fade, the blazing sun almost ready to be replaced by the moon and stars. He thought about the book she had given him about the stars, a long time ago, or so it seemed. He had been reading it, learning it. Molly had come to his life and, something he only noticed now, had changed his life more than he could ever imagine. Not just the big things, but small things as well, like reading him stories and making him eat. How hard could it be to love her? To try it, at least?

He looked around and directed himself to Molly's room. He could hear the sound of the piano, low. He entered the room, admiring her fragile figure. Knowing that she was pregnant accentuated all this. She looked behind as the door screeched in its hinges and stopped playing. Sherlock, like many times before, shortened the distance between them and sat by her side, placing his own hands next to hers, without playing the keys. Molly looked unsure; trying to figure out what he was dong there.

"Molly." He said, looking away. His hair was a swirl of black curls.

She did not say a word, waiting for him to continue. He held her hand, unsure.

"Molly Hooper, will you marry me?"

Molly's free hand fell on the piano, the disarrangement of all the wrong played notes as big as the one of her own heart.

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**Please note that this is not the end of the from it. There's a lot more to come. Thanks for reading. **


	23. Chapter 23

"Ugh, don't be ridiculous, Sherlock."

Molly got up, releasing her hand from Sherlock's grip and moved away from the small bench and the piano. Sherlock followed her with his eyes, more confused than he had ever been. And that was to say a lot, as he had been very confused the last few months.

"What's wrong?" He asked, not really understanding why she was reacting like this. Was that a no? She should want to marry him, shouldn't she?

"What's wrong?" Molly repeated his question, smiling half-heartedly. He really didn't get it. "Are you crazy? You come here and out of the blue you ask me to marry you? Are you insane? I mean, more than usual?" Her tone was not angry, just condescending and a little sad. She knew he had no idea what he was doing and was merely following his intuition.

Sherlock still didn't understand what was wrong in all that.

"No. I just… I was talking to John and… I am supposed to do the right thing."

He said that as if it was a good behaviour rule had had just learnt. Molly rolled her eyes and laughed this time.

"That's exactly what I mean." She explained, opening her hands and explain. "Just because it may look like it is the right thing, considering the situation, it does not make it the right thing. Jesus, you really don't get it, do you?" She asked, looking at him as if he was a child.

Sherlock's expression really resembled the one of a very lost kid. He shook his head.

"I don't think I do, no." He was trying to find some reasoning for her words.

"The thing is, Sherlock, I can't deny I would like someone by my side. Raising a baby must be one of the most difficult tasks someone has to go through. I do not wish to do it alone. And I don't think anyone is better to help me do it than the father. My child's father. You. But I do not want you to marry me."

"No." Sherlock said the word as if it was more an affirmation than a question. He would have never expected that.

"No if you do not really mean it. Why should you marry me when you don't even understand the whole thing about marriage in the first place? You said so at John and Mary's wedding. That you did not understand why some people made such a fuss out of a signed paper."

Sherlock shrugged, looking at her, without an idea of what he should really do about all that.

"I just thought it was the best thing to do. We're having a baby together and it's like building a family, isn't it? I mean, parents should be together. So, I thought it was a good idea."

Molly shook her head, staring him right in the eyes.

"It was not." She said. "Actually, let's make a deal. Promise me you will never ask me to marry you ever again unless you mean it, unless you love me."

She said the words slowly so that Sherlock understood the real meaning of them. She didn't want him to propose. Life was sad enough for her without having to refuse doing one of the things she probably wanted the most. Of course she would like to marry Sherlock. That had been one of the things she had ever fanaticised about after all, wasn't it? But she didn't want it this way. Not because he thought he should. Not due to the circumstances. She wanted to be loved. And that was not going to happen with him. It was a fact she had accepted. Another Molly would have said yes without even considering the consequences or the meaning of the proposal. But she was a new Molly, and she knew now better than that.

Sherlock considered what she had asked of him. To be true to himself he was quite relieved with her answer. Wasn;t he? Sherlock considered for a moment. Marrying her wouldn't habe been such a bad thing. He shook the thought away as it gained form inside his mind. Molly was much more sensate that he had ever imagined.

"Okay." He agreed.

Molly held her hand in front of him and he shook it. They had sealed the deal and so should it be. She sat next to him again, letting go of his hand.

"Will you stick up for me?" She inquired. "Will you help me? I know neither of us was expecting this but it's something we have to deal with. I am as lost as you are, I have never been a mother and I have no one to turn to. I guess we'll just have to learn as we go along. But I do not wish to do it on my own. Will you do it? With me?"

Sherlock nodded, sure for the first time since she had delivered the news, of what he was agreeing with. Yes, he would not let her alone at a time like this. They would do it together, even if he had also no idea of what being a father meant.

Molly got up and, to Sherlock's surprise, she held his head between her hands and planted a kiss on his black curls. She then moved away again and sat on the bed, staring at him and smiling. What a silly man that one genius could be sometimes. Give him something new, something unexpected, and you watch him twirling, scared and lost as a puppet that has lost its strings. He was adorable, nevertheless.

Looking at her fond expression and because he really didn't know what else to ask, Sherlock inquired, remembering the advice John had given him.

"Hum… Would you like a foot massage? Some ice cream later, maybe?"

Molly frowned. She did not know where that came from but yes, a foot massage was just what she needed.


	24. Chapter 24

**Month Three**

Sherlock came closer to the bathroom door right after he had seen Molly running to it as if her life depended on it. Molly had come downstairs to grab a muffin and went back to her room to finish getting dressed. He was playing the violin as she came down the stairs and stopped, following her with his head. He heard Molly throwing up violently and stopped on his feet, unable to decide what to do. Should he just leave her be and hope she would get better or go next to her and help her? Sherlock had been reading a few books John had lent him about pregnancy. It was his way to cope with his ignorance and, he could even admit it, his fear. Was all this sickness that had hurried Molly what they called morning sickness? Probably.

"Molly, are you okay?" He asked, speaking to her through the closed bathroom door.

Molly started to mumble something but a new episode of vomit took over her and all Sherlock could hear again was her being sick. He wanted to help. He opened the door a little.

"Can I do anything to help?" He asked, unsure.

"Just go away!"

Molly shouted. Sherlock could hardly see her, curled on the floor, head almost inside the toilet. He decided to leave her alone. He left to the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

When Molly came back from the bathroom, face washed and teeth brushed and her eyes red because of the sickness, Sherlock was placing the tea he had made for her on the table.

"Feeling better?" He asked, passing her the tea instead of putting it down.

"Yes. Just morning sickness, I guess." She said. It was the first time it happened and she was taking it the best she could. Still, eating a chocolate muffin for breakfast to throw it up right after was not something she was happy with. Luckily enough she had baked more than enough for a small battalion the day before. She could have taken it as pregnancy craving, but she knew pretty well it was regular, every day and usual to her, craving.

Molly took a sip of the tea as Sherlock examined her thoroughly.

"I am okay." She assured. "I am feeling better now, no queasiness."

"Here." Sherlock said, passing her some pretzels. "Eat something salty. I read it helps."

Molly looked at him, surprised.

"You've been reading about pregnancy and morning sickness?" She asked, smiling.

Sherlock tried to dismiss the matter, embarrassed.

"I just… I thought it might be helpful."

Molly was indeed pleased with that. Their relationship hadn't changed much. She kept with her own life and Sherlock with his, but they had become closer in a way she found difficult to describe. It was not that his attitudes had changed. But they shared something now, and it was as if they had started to fit better with each other. They knew, even unconsciously, that they would always be connected, for better or worse and whatever their lives might take them. They might even find other people to be with – Molly, at least – but they would always have something in common. Knowing that, they had become, somewhat of a couple. Not a real couple, of course. More like a team. Molly would cook for them as usual. But Sherlock would take care of a few things as well. He made sure the living room was not as confusing as it used to be and most of the time he prepared breakfast for both, as Molly had to work and he was, except when in a case, home in the morning. If Molly slept late on weekends he would sometimes go out and buy some groceries. He did it wrong many times, bringing things they didn't even need, but he had eventually got the hang of it. He would never leave the house without writing a note where he had gone and sometimes, he would call her during the day, if he was away and her at home, just to make sure everything was fine. He had become her protector in a way. Molly enjoyed that. For some reason she could not understand, he would offer to massage her feet pretty often and there was always ice cream on the fridge. There were days when he wouldn't speak a word and he still played the violin through the night, but now it was always quieter and less often. More than once, Molly had sensed him opening the door of her room during the night, after he had finished playing, to make sure she was okay. She would smile then and kept her eyes closed, so he wouldn't know that she was in fact awakened. In truth, hearing him playing the violin was now what soothed her to sleep.

Molly got up, finishing her tea. It was good, as always. Warm but not too much, just as she liked it.

"Are you sure you are okay to go to work? You could just call and ask for the day off."

"I am okay, Sherlock. I am pregnant, not sick. I will be fine. I am feeling better, not sick anymore."

Sherlock gazed at her, not convinced, but he knew better than to try to persuade her not to go. She picked up her purse from the couch and put on her coat.

"Don't forget we have the appointment today."

"Appointment?" Sherlock asked, trying to remember if she had mentioned anything to him.

"Yes. The ultrasound, Sherlock. It's today."

"Oh, yes, I remember now!" He said.

Molly smiled and left the apartment, closing the door behind her. Sherlock sat on the kitchen chair, finishing his tea. He knew he should feel happy. He was going to see his child for the first time. The baby inside Molly would become more than just an idea. It would be a real thing now. He would actually see it. He was terrified.

Sherlock got out of the taxi in front of the medical centre where he was supposed to meet Molly. She arrived a few minutes later. Her hair was still tied in a ponytail and she seemed as nervous as he did.

"Hi!" She said, as soon as she saw him. "I left a little later, had to finish some papers. ave you been waiting for a long time?"

"No, just arrived a few minutes ago."

"Okay, good. Shall we go?"

Sherlock nodded and they entered the building. Molly gave her name to the receptionist at the entrance and they were both incited to wait in the waiting room. There were a few women there waiting already, reading magazines or leaflets about pregnancy and the first months of home with the baby. By taking a quick look at the brochures, Sherlock could not imagine how they didn't just run away from there. There were things, specially related to giving birth, that he really would be grateful not to know them. It all seemed very scary. How a woman was able to go through all that - and some more than once - was something that was out of his capacity to understand. Women were crazy. And, he considered, brave as hell. He just sat there, next to Molly, more uncomfortable than he had ever felt in his life.

The wait was long. Half an hour delay. He was not used to stay at the same place for so long, but Molly was the one pregnant and she was not complaining. She was watching two toddlers playing with each other on the floor, dragging trucks from side to side. One of the toddlers left the truck he was playing with and picked up a plastic plane, got up and came close to them, the plane twiddling in his hand.

"Look, it's flying!" The toddler said, laughing hysterically. He was saying that as if it was the most important thing in the world.

"Actually, a plane like that and with no aerodynamic or any kind of motor to make it work cannot actually fly. It's just you, holding it in the air, you know?" Sherlock said to the toddler, very matter of factly.

Molly looked at Sherlock, opening her mouth and he faced her as the toddler moved away from them, a scared look in his face.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked, as he scanned through Molly's face. He didn't understand what he had done wrong.

"Not really, Sherlock." She admitted to him. "I think he knows the plane is not really flying. He is just a baby. He was kind of saying he was making it fly. He was playing and wanted you to be as amused as he was."

"Well, he was too happy for someone who knows that the plane is not flying. I was just trying to explain how planes work in order to fly." Sherlock explained, trying to make her understand.

"I think it may be a little too early for him to get hold of that. And he was happy because he was playing. That's what babies usually are about almost everything: happy."

Sherlock nodded, trying to figure out the look on Molly's face. He didn't understand how it was wrong to teach children the real things.

Finally, Molly's name was called and they entered the consulting room. The ultrasound technician was there, ready to help them. He asked Molly a few questions, looking at her file. Sherlock didn't pay attention to the conversation between the two. He was looking at all the paraphernalia in the room. After finishing the questions, Molly was directed to the ultrasound chair and asked to pull her shirt up, just above the belly. Molly did so. Sherlock looked at her skin. It was pale and a small bump was already visible. He felt nervous again. Molly shivered as the technician put the gel on her belly.

"It's cold." Molly said, looking at Sherlock and smiling. He smiled back. She looked so beautiful and vulnerable. Sherlock shook his head again. 'Focus,' he thought.

The technician placed the scanner on Molly's belly and a dark image appeared on the screen.

"Oh, here it is, your baby. It's just one. Let's see what we find more…" She moved the scan on Molly's belly. "There's a heartbeat, can you hear it?"

Sherlock focused on the image. He did not understand what was what. The technician was describing it to Molly. He could, nevertheless, hear the heartbeat of the baby. It was a quick sound and it made his own heart accelerate. The idea hit him hard at that precise moment. He was going to be a father. His baby was right there, forming itself, a heart beating. He was dazed. He came closer to the chair and, in an intuitive gesture, he held Molly's hand.

Molly looked up as she felt Sherlock's hand on hers, holding tight. He didn't return the look; he was staring at the screen, watching the baby on her belly. She focused her attention on the technician again and smiled, though, feeling his warm hand that wouldn't let go. Molly had to squeeze his hand so that he would get out of the trance, as the technician had cleaned her belly from the gel, and told her that everything was okay with the baby so far. It was still not possible to see the gender. They should make another appointment for within a month.

Molly and Sherlock got out of the building, looking for a taxi to go home. She was smiling, looking at the cars passing buy.

"His heart was beating." Sherlock said. The mesmerized look was still on his face.

"His or hers." Molly corrected. She looked at him. "It's so… beautiful, isn't it?" She placed her hand on her small bump, an immense tenderness in her eyes.

Sherlock raised his hand for a taxi and looked at her, holding her belly as if creating a cocoon for that small form of life. He smiled. 'Yes,' he thought, 'beautiful was the right word.'


	25. Chapter 25

**Month Five**

Molly was in her room, trying the new clothes she had just bought. Skinny jeans and tight shirts were not comfortable anymore. At last she had a good reason to wear all the knee length skirts she had bought so long ago and never got to wear them. She looked at herself in the mirror and pulled the shirt up, letting it rest above her belly. The bump was now very visible. It was not just a small bump anymore. Still, even though her clothes did not fit and her belly was bigger every day, she felt more beautiful than ever. The morning sickness was, thankfully, over but her cravings were now intense. Or, were they? She had always been someone who had cravings, so maybe it wasn't the pregnancy after all. One day she had made Sherlock get her white chocolate with hazelnuts in the middle of the night. He had rummaged to a few convenience stores and had finally found what she wanted. They had sat on the couch and shared the chocolate, Sherlock asking questions about the baby and Molly answering the best she could. The funny thing was that Sherlock, when she had mentioned the craving, hadn't tried to dismiss it. He had gotten up, coat and gloves and scarf and left right away, only returning with what she needed. It had made her smile. He was taking it serious. Too serious, in her opinion. She was not ill nor unable to do things, still he had taken charge of a few things in the house and didn't even let her clean or make anything that may get her tired. Mrs. Hudson – Molly was sure it was under Sherlock's command – had taken care of a few things as well. Molly felt guilty for that but, at the same time, she couldn't help but feel special. She had never been treated like that in all her life. Like she mattered. Like she carried something precious. And, to be honest, she did carry the most precious thing in the world. She stroked the belly, making round circles with her fingers, enjoying the touch of her own skin.

Sherlock had left again, in a case. There had been quite a few in the last couple of months. John had showed up more often as well, to help Sherlock and to check on her, make sure she was doing fine. He knew how life with Sherlock could be tough but she really didn't have much to complain about. One day, when John arrived at the apartment earlier than Sherlock they had chatted and Molly had told him about the marriage proposal. John said he knew about it already, Sherlock had talked to him about it. Molly understood then that when John had told Sherlock to do the right thing – and he meant stick up for her, stay with her – Sherlock had misinterpreted everything. That silly man! They had laughed over it. Molly figured out later on also why there was always ice cream on the fridge and all the foot massages. She smiled again. She also worried about Sherlock. His hunger for adrenaline had set him through some dangerous paths once in a while. One time he had been so absorbed in the case that John had come to the apartment to look for him because he didn't answer the phone. When Molly tried with her own cell phone Sherlock picked up promptly, worried that anything had happened to her, since she rarely called. John had heard their conversation before Molly passed him the phone and laughed to himself. Sherlock had definitively changed. If for no one else, at least for Molly.

They had had a few appointments with the doctor and Molly had gone through another ultrasound. The technician said it was possible to see the baby's gender. Sherlock and Molly looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. No, they didn't want to know. They would wait for the birth. It was like a secret, a thrilling surprise, the unknown they were keeping as a present for when the baby was born. Yes, they wanted it that way.

The technician had indulged with their decision, with an understanding smile. Those two made such a nice young couple. He would always hold her hand and, after the initial shock of the first appointment, made many, many questions, eager to understand everything he was seeing and everything that was happening. Little did she know that they were not a common couple at all.

Molly was still looking at her belly in the mirror when a soft knock on the door announced Sherlock's presence in the room. She gave a small jump.

"I didn't hear you enter the apartment."

"You were distracted." He pointed out, looking at her hands over her own belly.

Molly put the shirt down, embarrassed.

"Yes." She admitted.

"You went shopping." He affirmed, looking at the bags on top of her bed and at the clothes on the floor. She hurried to pick them up but he stopped her with a gesture and picked them up himself. He was not good at folding them but he made an attempt.

"Thank you." She said.

She noticed two presents on top of the bed, which he had placed there to pick the clothes from the floor. Sherlock followed her gaze.

"Ah, yes. This is for you."

He gave her the first present, what looked like a box wrapped in red paper. She smiled as a silent 'thank you' and opened it. It was a wooden box, with some letters hand painted on the lid. It said 'Love, Laughter and Sleepless Nights' in a beautiful handwriting. Molly smiled at the truth of that. Sherlock's face mimicked her unconsciously. She opened the box and inside, neatly folded, were baby clothes. Everything was so tiny and cute. A bodysuit with long sleeves, a beautiful knitted sweater, a babygro and a tiny beautiful skirt. On top of it all there was a beautiful pair of soft baby shoes. Molly sat on the bed with the box on her lap and removed the skirt from it.

"A skirt?" She asked, looking at Sherlock and smiling.

"Lucky guess." He said simply, shrugging.

Molly took the clothes from the box, one by one. For some reason, she hadn't yet bought any clothes for the baby. A mistake, probably. It was time to start doing it but she had been so absorbed on the pregnancy itself and on the changes in her body that she didn't realise there were just a few four months to go. She tried not to panic. She would have time for everything.

After looking through the clothes she put them back in the box and closed the lid, like she was holding a treasure. That had been the nicest thing Sherlock had done the last few months, and that was to say a lot, since he had been acting in a way Molly would never have guessed he would.

"I need to buy other things for the baby." Molly said, looking at him. "I don't have anything. A bed, the stroller, more clothes… I have nothing." She looked around the room. "I need to make this more beautiful for him or her."

"Maybe you can take next week off to do it. I am sure your boss won't oppose to it. You have been working more than you should."

Sherlock had repeated this sentence more than once since she got pregnant, but this time he was right. They would not die at the hospital if she did take one week off to take care of those things. Then she could really focus on it and do it properly, without running. Yes, she would talk to Mr. Green about it.

Sherlock sat next to her and gave her the second present. It was square shaped and smooth but flat. Molly could guess when she held it that it was a book. She ripped the paper and looked at the cover. 'Baby names' was the title. Molly looked at Sherlock.

"I thought we might get to think about it. A name is important. And maybe we should go for something more common."

"What do you mean?" she asked, without understanding his comment.

"Well, Mycroft suggested I named the baby after him. LIke that would happen." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "So maybe… well, our parents gave us quite strange names."

"I like your name." She said. "It's different."

"Yes, too different." He stared at her. "Unless… I am sorry; maybe you had a name in mind? I just thought the books would be a good idea if you didn't."

"No, I have no idea, to be honest. I have thought about it but I really don't know. There are so many possibilities."

"Well, you can start choosing now." He said and got up. "I am going to make some tea. Would you like some?"

Molly nodded and Sherlock went downstairs. She followed a bit after, not without opening the wooden box again and feeling the baby clothes on her fingers.

Sherlock had made the tea and had placed hers on the table next to her chair. He was playing his violin when Molly came down the stairs and sat at the chair, taking a sip of the tea. It was perfect and she really needed it. It made her feel warm. Or maybe the feeling inside was just because of all he had done, the gifts he had brought her and his general attitudes towards her. Either way, Molly was pleased.

She opened the book rummaging through the names and Sherlock, observing it, lowered the sound of the violin a little.

"Okay, let's see what we have here…." She searched through the pages carefully, reading the names and the meanings. "There are a few original names here." She pointed, smiling and remembering Sherlock's words about strange names. "Alchemy." She looked up and Sherlock stopped playing, a worried expression in his face. "What? You like chemistry and…"

"No." he said, very serious.

"Okay, then." Molly said, supressing a smile. He didn't realise she was teasing him. "Aithley? It means born in a garden."

"Maybe you should skip the A's." Sherlock suggested and went back to his violin.

Molly didn't say anything for a while, she just read the pages and enjoyed her tea until it was finished.

"Lewis." She read. "I like it. It sounds nice."

"If it's a boy." Sherlock said.

"Yes, if it's a boy."

"Well, maybe we should look for a name that fits both boys and girls, and then we can choose accordingly." He said, wisely.

"Okay." Molly agreed.

The hours passed and the sun set, hiding to be replaced by the moon. It became a bit chilli in the apartment and Molly grabbed a blanket, covering herself with it. She never thought choosing a name could be that difficult. There was not a name she liked all that much, but it was important to choose well, as that would be his or her name for all their lives. Sherlock had continued to play. It was wonderful how he would get so absorbed in the violin, that time would go by and he wouldn't even notice nor get tired. He would stretch his fingers sometimes but he would never stop. Molly put the book down and stroke her belly with soft movements, rising her shirt again. She liked to hold it as if she was holding her baby, protecting it. The music Sherlock was playing was low, slow and sad. He was dragging the notes and they were long and beautiful. Molly felt a kick. She gasped.

Sherlock stopped playing, coming closer and kneeling next to her.

"Are you okay? Is everything okay?"

Molly smiled widely, eyes opened, looking at him.

"It kicked!"

She put her hand on the place she had felt the baby move, waiting for another kick. Sherlock was looking at the belly, an worried expression but, at the same time, in awe.

Molly felt it again, a bit softer this time.

"Here." She said, holding his hand in hers and placing it over her belly. It was warm. Sherlock felt her skin and waited. Nothing happened.

"It's not kicking anymore." He said.

"Wait." Molly made pressure on his hand and they stayed like that for a few minutes, waiting. Nothing.

Molly shook her head.

"No, I guess that was it."

She smiled. That was the best feeling in the world. She had felt her baby move inside her. For some reason and even if she had seen the ultrasound, it made her feel like that was even more real.

Sherlock removed his had from her belly, slowly. He shrugged.

"I am sure you will feel it next time." Molly said, looking at his desolate face.

Sherlock looked around.

"Come." He said, extending his hand to her. "There's something I want to show you. Bring the blanket."

Molly got up, with the blanket on her hand and followed him. He went out of the living room in the direction of the stairs that led to the street, but instead of going down he looked at the ceiling. He then grabbed a handle that was there and opened a little door that was commonly used as attic's entrance. Molly had never noticed that before. He then pulled a wooden ladder down. It was in good conditions, though Molly had never seen him use it.

"Do you think you can go up?" He asked.

Molly was sure she could. It seemed okay for her. She started going up the stairs and Sherlock followed, making sure he was ready to hold her in case she lost her balance.

When Molly reached the top she could see the whole city around her. It was a bit dark up there but Sherlock, that had gone back down after making sure her climb was safe, had brought a few candles with him. He had brought a second blanket and a few pillows as well and placed it all on the floor. He helped Molly sit down and started to light the candles. Up there the lights from the streets were not so visible and Sherlock sat next to her, covering her with the blanket she had brought. He pointed up.

"Look."

Looking up, Molly saw all the stars shinning bright above them. Many, so many, stars she was not able to see when in a lower place because the city lights overshadowed everything. It was beautiful.

"This is lovely." She said. "I didn't know you had this here."

"Well, nobody uses it, really. I am not very fond of stargazing, but I noticed the small passage on the ceiling. Mrs. Hudson makes sure the ladder and the door are kept in a good condition. I thought you might like it. And I can test how much my knowledge improved after reading your book."

"You didn't read it all, did you?" Molly asked, closing her eyes a little.

Sherlock smirked and shook his head. Molly started to laugh and the sound echoed around them. It was pure, honest. A true laughter.

"That's Orion there." She pointed out a constellation. "He's known as the mighty hunter. It's my favourite."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, following the direction her finger had pointed.

Molly shrugged.

"I don't know. You don't really need a reason to like things. Sometimes you just like them." And she added. "It's formed by seven main stars. He was a warrior."

Molly reclined herself on the floor, looking at the stars without adding anything else. She was a little tired.

"Robyn." Sherlock mumbled, as Molly's eyes were about to close.

"What?" She asked, looking at him, sitting next to her, looking at a point she could not see.

"We could call her Robyn. It means bright, shiny. Like a star is." He looked at her. "And if it's a boy, we can change a letter and call him Robin. It's also the name of a warrior, like Orion."

Molly stared into his eyes and realised he hadn't just bought the book. He had read it. He had thought about it. And he had made his choice, even if he had let her do hers. She searched for his hand and held it. It was a little cold.

"You can have the blanket too." She said, making room for him. He lied down next to her and covered himself, looking at the stars far away again. "You had thought about it, haven't you?" She asked, knowing the answer.

He nodded.

"Yes. I have. I like how this particular name sounds, it's different without being weird, but I wasn't sure you would like it." He admitted.

Molly smiled and said the name, playing with the way it sounded now.

"Robyn, Robyn, Robyn." She paused. "I like it." She whispered.

She closed her eyes and got closer to him. It felt natural now, after all they had shared. Sherlock smiled and let her fall asleep, tucking her in, with the skies clear and bright as his own mind felt at that moment.

He woke her up after a few hours, they had to go inside and she needed to sleep, as she had to work the next day.

Molly got into her own bed as Sherlock started to play the violin again downstairs. He would not be going to bed so soon. After a while the movements inside her belly started again and she understood that also Robyn liked to hear the father playing.


	26. Chapter 26

**Month Seven**

Sherlock woke up early. He went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and then took a quick shower and got dressed. The suit would have to be changed later on but for now Molly had to think everything was normal. He checked her room to make sure she was still asleep. Her hair fell on the pillow, tangled up and shining with the little bit of light that came from the ceiling window. She was sleeping on her side instead of sleeping with the belly down – the size of the belly did not allow her to sleep on her favourite position anymore – and looked peaceful. Sherlock knew she would not wake up so early. They had stayed up late the day before, making a list of things that were necessary for the baby and that Molly would buy during the week. It was her birthday today and, when midnight passed, Sherlock had looked at his wristwatch and planted a kiss on her cheek. She looked at him surprised but it all made sense when he said 'happy birthday'. She had smiled and stretched her arms to the sky, tired. She was pleased and they had talked for a few more hours about everything: her childhood, her favourite birthday, and presents she remembered. The nice thing about her was that, if you would let her share things and listen, she was an open book, no secrets. Sherlock liked that. She was honest. Unlike him, she did not try to conceal anything.

Sherlock closed the door of the room and went downstairs, to arrange everything with Mrs. Hudson. The two women had agreed, with a little hint from Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson, in going shopping for the baby. Molly, with Mrs. Hudson suggestion, seemed very excited. It was clear she was a little lost about all the things that needed buying. With Mrs. Hudson offer for help she also seemed to relax a little and the two of them started to talk about clothes and strollers and Sherlock's brain had turned off. His plan was set in motion and that was all that matters. Now it was just making sure Mrs. Hudson powers of persuasion would keep Molly out of the house for quite a few hours. It should all be fine.

Mrs. Hudson was already up and dressed when Sherlock knocked on her door.

"Oh, hello, dear. Is Molly ready already?" She asked.

"Not yet Mrs. Hudson, that's why I came downstairs. Are you sure you know everything you need to do?"

"Well, how hard can it be?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "It's not very difficult to keep a woman out of the house when it is to go shopping. We are going to have so much fun." Mrs. Hudson seemed even more excited than Molly.

"Okay, then."

Sherlock smiled, looking to Mrs. Hudson's face. It was pride he saw there. Proud of him.

When they had told Mrs. Hudson they were expecting a baby, the landlady hadn't made any questions, as if that was the most natural thing, even if Sherlock and Molly had never assumed to have a relationship. Mrs. Hudson had congratulated them and offered help in anything they needed. This was one of the things Sherlock loved about her. She could be discreet when necessary.

"I am going back upstairs. John is coming over as well; I am waiting for Molly to get out of the house to call him."

He then gave a tender kiss on Mrs. Hudson cheek and smiled, turning away from her. Mrs. Hudson smiled. Those two, Sherlock and Molly, made such a nice couple, only the two of them couldn't see it. Or, better said, Sherlock would not see it. Mrs. Hudson was sure Molly was in love with Sherlock since the first time she had laid eyes on the way Molly looked at him. She smiled and started to make some tea. That was going to be an amazing day!

Molly woke up a few hours later and got on her back on the bed, stretching herself. The position was not comfortable, however, and she moved again. It took her a moment to realise which day it was. Then she smiled, looking at the protuberance on the blankets from her beautiful round belly. She caressed it, feeling the baby move, and got up. She looked at herself in the mirror. She was huge. All her old clothes had been kept in a corner of the closet and now pregnant clothes were her day to day outfit. Comfortable shoes were also a must wear as her feet tended to swollen during the day. She looked through the clothes she had bought and found the one she had been looking for. A beautiful, colourful mummy-dress, that would cover her round belly but felt comfortable to her. The days were now warmer and it seemed to be beautiful outside, going by the light that came through the window. She got dressed and after brushing her hair she decided to let it loose. She would tie it up if she felt it was necessary during the day. Mrs. Hudson must be waiting for her.

She came down the stairs and found Sherlock sitting on the sofa, fully dressed.

"Good morning." She said, smiling at him.

"Hello." He said. "There's tea for you. Mrs. Hudson came asking for you, I would say she is very excited you two are going out today."

Molly helped herself to some tea and bread with jam. She felt an unusual need to eat sweet things in the last couple of months.

"It was a wonderful idea!" Molly said. "I am going to need help and Mrs. Hudson seems to know a lot about babies and clothes and what not. And she is always so nice to me."

She ate her toast, enjoying the flavour on her mouth. Thank god the morning sickness had gone forever; she did not want to waste such a nice breakfast. Sherlock got up and picked his wallet and came sit next to her.

"Here." He said, extending her a card. "Take my card."

Molly looked at him, caught by surprise.

"No, Sherlock." She refused. "I can't take that."

"You have no choice." Sherlock said and, as she would not take it, he placed the card on her hand. "The expenses are not only yours. You have been buying quite a few clothes for yourself because you need it, and I am the father. I don't need new clothes, but I do owe for the rest."

Molly felt self-conscious.

"I have been putting a few more weight and the old clothes don't fit anymore, that's why I have been buying new clothes. And my belly is quite big for my old clothes anyway."

She seemed a little upset and Sherlock did not understand why. He continued.

"Yes. Anyway, take the card and buy whatever you want. It's also my birthday present. "

Molly smiled and nodded, knowing there was nothing else she could do to make him stop insisting on that matter. She would take his card but he didn't think, for a second, that she would use it. She would use her own. Little did she know Sherlock had taken her card out of her purse already, so she really would have no choice but to pay with his. She would then want to pay back, but that just wouldn't happen.

"Oh, and there's also this." He said, delivering a coupon from a store.

Molly picked it up.

"This is a lot of money. And this store is one of the best stores for children' clothes."

"Don't look at me like that, it's not mine. It's Mycroft's. He insisted. And it's a present, so you can't give it back. He said it is his little treat for his nephew or niece. He would like a girl, he pointed out, but he will be pleased either way."

Sherlock smiled at her, remembering the conversation with Mycroft. He had never seen his brother so happy, even after all the questions and congratulations because Sherlock was no longer a… Well, that part Sherlock wanted to erase from his memory. He had realised his brother was as happy as he hadn't seen him in a long time, and that gave him some sort of a secret satisfaction.

Molly finished her toast and the tea and got up. Sherlock looked at her from head to toe.

"What?" She asked, feeling self-conscious again.

He scoffed.

"Nothing."

"Sherlock Holmes." Molly said, as he turned around. "Don't you dare laugh at me and leave."

"I wasn't laughing at you." He said, turning around with the same smirk on his face. "I like the dress."

Molly put her hand on her hip.

"Are you making fun of me?"

He laughed this time.

"No!" He said. "I am serious. The dress. It looks nice. It's very pretty. It looks very good on you."

There was a sincerity in his eyes that Molly couldn't help but notice. He meant it.

"Oh, well. Thank you. I don't feel very comfortable with clothes that are not this large and it's warm outside. I like it."

She took a look at herself. She did feel good today. Maybe it was the way the dress fit on her, or just because it was her birthday, but she was happy. She didn't always feel like that. Sometimes, when she came back from work, tired and with her feet swollen, her stomach as if there was a bowling ball stuck in it, her back so hurt that all she wanted was to stretch on the couch and never get up, and sweating from the warm weather that had finally embraced London, she felt terrible. All she wanted most days was to take a shower and stay there forever, without looking at herself in the mirror.

Sherlock was now looking outside the window, stroking the violin strings absentmindedly. Molly grabbed her purse and put the card there, along with the coupon from Mycroft. That had been nice of him. He had visited once and, unlike his natural self, had been very kind to her. The environment, that usually was heavy when he and Sherlock were together, was quite relaxed and that surprised her. Maybe the changes that baby would make didn't just stop at her and Sherlock.

"Okay, I am leaving now." She said. "I am not sure what time I do return."

"Don't worry. You have all the time you want. Just don't forget we have to go to Mycroft's around eight."

"Oh, I won't be out so long." And she walked out of the door.

Sherlock waited until her and Mrs. Hudson left the flat and picked up a cab, and he then dialled the two numbers. First, John. Then, searching through his phone contacts again, his old acquaintance and graffiti artist, Raz.


	27. Chapter 27

John came up the stairs less than half an hour later, carrying a big box with him.

"Sherlock, are you there?"

Sherlock had changed his clothes to something more comfortable and answered, opening the door to let him pass.

"Yes, I was upstairs."

"How's it going?" John asked, placing the box on the floor. They would only need that later.

"Well. I couldn't get much work done, but it's going well."

John looked at him.

"You haven't done anything at all, have you?"

John knew Sherlock well enough to know that he was the laziest man he had ever met. Sometimes he could not be bothered to get up and get his own laptop in his own room.

"I did!" Sherlock said, a look of outrage on his face.

"Okay, let's see then."

John followed Sherlock up the stairs, smiling. When they opened the door to Molly's room a lot was, indeed, already done. And to think he had only called him a little bit more than half an hour ago. Apparently, when he was the one planning things, he could go and actually do it. He had removed all of Molly's clothes and disassembled her wardrobe. The clothes were on top of her bed now.

"Okay." Sherlock said, passing a screwdriver to John's hand and pointing out her clothes. "I am going to take care of this and you take care of disassembling the bed. I will be right back to get more clothes."

Sherlock took a few clothes with him and John smiled. He knew Sherlock would give all the work to him. He realised, though, he would not be able to disassemble the bed with so many clothes on top of it. He picked a few carefully, avoiding wrinkling them and went down the stairs. In the end, as Sherlock was busy placing all of Molly's things in his own wardrobe, it was John who had all the trouble to come up and down the stairs and, when the time came to disassemble the bed, Sherlock disappeared suspiciously, returning minutes later with Raz by his side.

"Hey!" Raz said, recognizing John.

"Hi."

The first memory John had of Raz was not the best one, but the boy had helped them out on a case and was a very good artist.

"So, you have everything I asked you?" Sherlock inquired, looking at his watch.

"Yes. All taken care of." Raz said, pointing at the huge bag filled with paint cans he brought with him.

"Okay. Let us start, then."

Sherlock looked around the room, now empty except for the piano, which they had covered with pieces of cloth and had placed in the middle of the room. The disassembled bed would be going downstairs as well; he and John would take care of that while Raz started what he had been asked.

0

Molly was sitting at the table of the ice cream parlour, enjoying the strawberry ice cream and relaxing her feet and legs. It had been a busy day, filled with laughter and shopping. Mrs. Hudson was a best companion that she could have imagined and had helped her a lot, giving her tips about the baby and which types of clothes to buy. They had so many bags with them, Molly had feared they alone wouldn't be able to carry it all. Still, all in all, Molly was happy for the day she had had. She would rather have spent it with Sherlock, but they would have now the dinner at Mycroft's house and she was expecting it to be nice.

Mrs. Hudson came back from the bathroom.

"This is a very hot day!" She stated. "Nice, but warm."

"It's getting better now, Mrs. Hudson. As the afternoon ends it is finally getting fresher."

Mrs. Hudson smiled, looking at her round face. She made such a lovely pregnant. And she seemed happy as well, despite all they had walked and the shops they had visited. Mrs. Hudson, following Sherlock's orders, had suggested the ice cream parlour as their last stop. As Sherlock had expected, Molly did not decline, she loved the idea.

"Thank you so much for all, Mrs. Hudson. I would have probably bought all the pretty stuff and actually forget all the necessary things." Molly said, delighted with her ice cream.

"Oh, don't even mention it. I am very glad to help. I like seeing you happy."

"And so do I."

Sherlock had found them easily and sat next to Mrs. Hudson's, complimenting her with a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, hello! What are you doing here?" Molly asked, looking at him, surprised.

"I came to pick you up." Sherlock said. "We have to go to Mycroft's in a while and I decided to come earlier."

"Well, then since you are with her, I think I am going to leave you two alone. I am a little bit tired." Said Mrs. Hudson, getting up. "Do you mind if I go home?"

"Not at all." Sherlock said, blinking. That was also part of the plan and Mrs. Hudson was an excellent executer.

"Oh, you're leaving already? You didn't even finish your ice cream."

"Sherlock can do it for me, dear."

"But we can all take the same taxi, we're all going home."

"No, we are going directly to Mycroft's." Sherlock said. He picked Mrs. Hudson ice cream and, to Molly's surprise, started to eat it.

"But I need to change clothes!" Molly said.

"You look lovely like that."

"But…"

"Don't worry." Sherlock cut and he looked at Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you so much Mrs. Hudson. I will take you to the taxi."

He picked up all of Molly's bag and left to find a taxi for Mrs. Hudson, who waved Molly goodbye, a big smile on her face.

When Sherlock came back Molly was finishing her ice cream, trying to understand why on earth they had to leave to Mycroft's house straight from there. He sat across from her.

"I really would like to go home." She said.

Sherlock looked at his watch.

"forget it. This way we can go directly there and take a walk before dinner. They have a big, beautiful garden there. You are going to like it." He assured. "And don't worry, you do look lovely. It would be a shame if Mycroft didn't see you in that dress."

Molly blushed at the words and Sherlock got up. She followed him out of the establishment.

"Did you enjoy the day?" He asked, raising his hand to stop a taxi.

"Yes, I really liked it. It was fun. And you did see all the bags. Which reminds me… What did you do with my card?"

Sherlock opened the door of the taxi that had stopped, a look that tried to be innocent on his face. Molly got in as he answered.

"Sometimes you need extreme measures to make things go according to plan." And he smiled, looking at her as the taxi drove away.

Mycroft was waiting for them to arrive when the taxi stopped in front of his mansion. Molly looked up, fascinated. She hadn't seen a house this big in a long time, and most of the ones she had seen took place in catalogues and magazines. This one was real. Huge, with many windows and a big white door with a white column on each side and a small garden on the front, where the taxi turned away. She was mesmerized.

"Sherlock and Molly!" Mycroft said, as they came closer to the door. "I was waiting for you. Didn't expect you so early."

"We came directly from the centre here." Sherlock informed. Mycroft understood right away, from the look on his face, that he was trying to conceal something from Molly. So it shall be.

"Well, come inside, then. It's a lovely day for a walk." He said opening the door.

Inside, the house was even more impressive. Big chandeliers hanging from high ceilings, two flights of stairs, each to a side of the house. Everything was shining, clean and smelling good. There were flowers all over the place. Sunflowers.

"I reckon it is your favourite flower." Mycroft said to Molly, following her gaze. "I wanted to decorate the house to please the birthday girl. And how is my niece doing?"

There was a protective tone on Mycroft's voice. It was nice, though. Almost paternal. She smiled.

"Or nephew." Molly said. "We don't know yet. It's going great. Everything is in order and hopefully will continue. My back has seen better days, with all that I have to carry around, but I suppose it is all worth it." She said, smiling and pointing at her giant belly.

"Ah, I am sure it is. You should have seen Sherlock when he was born! A small, tiny thing, cried all the time…"

"Can you please not do that?" Sherlock asked. His face changed a little. He didn't like to talk about his childhood.

"Oh, sorry." Mycroft apologised, without really meaning it.

"Thank you very much for the present." Molly said, trying to keep the good mood between the two brothers. "I bought lovely things."

"Oh, there was nothing!" Mycroft dismissed it with a gesture of his hand. "I am glad you enjoyed it."

"I was thinking maybe about taking Molly for a walk on the garden. I think she will love it." Sherlock said, looking at his brother.

"Of course, you're right. Let's do it like this, you take her for a walk and I will tell the wife you are here. She is getting ready still. It's going to take a while." Mycroft rolled his eyes and smiled, going away.

Sherlock led Molly through the living room and they went out the door, to the garden. It was even better than Molly thought. It wasn't just a garden, but one planted and built among water. So, as you walked in the garden, you were actually walking along little bridges swirl-shaped among a big lake. It was beautiful. After they walked a little there was a beautiful corner with pillows on the floor.

"You want to sit a little?" Sherlock asked, noticing her feet. They were swollen again, something that happened frequently the last couple of months. Her belly was huge and Molly had always been quite fragile, so nothing helped relieve her problem.

"Yes, that would be great." Molly agreed. She was in fact tired, but didn't want to complain.

The night was becoming a bit chilli but it was still warm enough for Molly to enjoy staying outside. Sherlock helped her sitting and sat across from her on the floor, on the pillows. It was a wonderful view they had there.

"Your feet." Sherlock said.

"What?" Molly looked at them.

Sherlock smiled and stretched a bit in her direction and picked one of her feet, placing it on top of his lap. He then removed the flat sandal she was wearing and held her feet in his hand.

"Oh, they are probably all dirty!" Molly warned, as his hand started to massage her foot in soft but firm movements.

In the distance Mycroft had come outside, looking for them. He smiled and retired again, leaving them be.

"Don't be silly." Sherlock said, without looking at her.

The day was starting to fade away, the light being replaced by the dark colour of the night skies. Molly reclined on the pillows and enjoyed the massage. He was skilful and eveytime he massaged her feet she just felt like going to sleep. Of course she couldn't do this here and now. They stood there for a long time, Sherlock picked her other foot. He stopped, as he saw Mycroft coming in their direction.

"Wonderful evening, isn't it?" He asked, looking at the sky. "My wife is ready to meet you."

They got up, but not before Sherlock helped Molly put her sandals on. Mycroft saw it but didn't comment and they went inside. Mycroft's wife was nicer than Molly expected. For some reason she had pictured her as a bitter person, probably because of the image Mycroft used to transmit. But she was indeed nice and warm, making her feel very comfortable. They had a lovely dinner and talked about babies and maternity while Mycroft and Sherlock were engaged on another type of conversation. The dinner, made by the cook of the house, was delicious and when she finished Molly felt like she could burst. They moved to the living room when dinner was finished to have some tea. A big cake was also brought with as many candles as Molly's years and they sang happy birthday to her with an even tone. Nothing was very effusive among the Holmes. Molly was, however, very pleased with it all.

A few hours later, when the moon shone bright in the clear night sky, Sherlock and Mycroft went outside for a walk together, while Mycroft's wife and Molly sat at the living room, watching them getting away and chatting. The two brothers then strolled through the garden, at a slow pace.

"So, have you told her yet?" Mycroft asked, looking sideways to his younger brother. He had grown up so tall, so distant from him. Mycroft wondered how that had happened.

"Told her what?" Sherlock asked. His tone was softer now. Molly had changed him in ways he could not see. But Mycroft could.

"Well, the obvious. That you do like her."

Sherlock didn't respond immediately. He walked at a constant pace, hands on his pockets.

"It's not like that Mycroft." He said. "I do like Molly, of course. She is my friend. But it's not like that."

"You think not?" Mycroft asked, stopping in front of his brother that stopped on his feet as well. "Well, that is not what I see. Or, should I say, what I observe?" He then proceeded, noticing the discomfort Sherlock was feeling. "I do remember the words I told you when you first came to my office to ask for advice. The thing is, I did not know it at the time. I had not seen Molly then, and certainly what I saw in you then was quite different from what I see in you now. I saw someone who was so confused he would just ruin everything at the first chance. Don't get me wrong. But you would. You would get together, then you would have gotten tired and overthinking everything and you would hurt her and ruin it all. But then, well, she got pregnant. And all I have seen the last months, whenever I speak with you is, on the one hand, my dear younger brother Sherlock, but if I look closely, it isn't. It's the 'you' Molly has shaped, step by step and, obviously, inadvertently. She never tried to do it; she knew it was a waste of time. She decided to love herself instead. And it was the rightest thing she has ever done. Because by loving herself she allowed you to love her as well." Sherlock was going to refute Mycroft's words but his brother stopped him with the gesture of his hand. "What I mean is that, by not showing how much she cares about you, she gave you the chance to be near her without feeling the pressure to love her. Without feeling that she was asking for something that you neither could nor wanted to give her. So, what happened was that you felt more comfortable around her, you let your guard down – because, let's face it, Molly Hooper is a lovely, lovely young woman. I would say it is impossible not to feel affection for her once you get to know her. So, to my surprise, I found myself looking at a Sherlock that was not my Sherlock. Not the one I knew, the one I helped to raise. I had seen this kind of transformation before, even if slighter. With John. You did care about him. But with Molly it goes beyond that. You do not only care, but you try to make her happy. And I can say that you are quite successful at it. She is happy, as far as I can tell." He took a deep breath, looked ahead without really seeing anything. "Sometimes we have to let go of what we believe to be true and accept what is really the truth, Sherlock. Even if it may seem like it's going to make us look like fools. I never had the luck to have my heart changed and shaped the way you have. I guess we are quite different, after all. And I admit now I may have failed to raise you. I do not know it all, and I never did. What I am trying to say is that, when certain chances come to us and all that takes is for us to extend our hand and grab it, we should extend our hand and grab it. She has changed you, Sherlock, and can change you even more, and still allow you be yourself. Because, as strange as it may seem to you, she does love you, just as you are. Don't waste the chance you have away because you want to be faithful to someone you are not anymore. Grab it." He then took a deep breath. "Make her happy, not just for some days, but always. I have realised you are the only one who can actually do it. Even if you may hurt her and she may hurt you sometimes. She will make it all worth it."

He then looked into Sherlock's eyes and for the first time in so many, many years, Sherlock approached his older brother and held him in a tight hug, without really knowing why and without really caring.

The night came finally to an end. It was late and Molly was feeling tired. Both her and Sherlock thanked the fantastic dinner and said goodbye to the amazing hosts they have had. Mycroft saw them getting into the car he had provided to take them back to 221B Baker Street while his wife gave him a kiss and left to get ready to sleep. Molly waved goodbye and he waved back, smiling at her. He was hoping his brother would follow this last advice. God knew Sherlock had forgotten all about his first advice and, to be honest, for the first time in his life he was happy that his Sherlock hadn't listened to him. Mycroft realised that he, too, was wrong sometimes. Luckily.

* * *

This is just a small introduction to my next chapter. A lot of things are still going to happen connected to this day but I had finished this part and decided to publish it.

A very big thank you to the lovely Robyn aka BBCRULES that has been helping me immensely, and particularly, in this story. Go and check her Sherlock fics as well, they are great! Thanks R.!


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock opened the door of the flat, looking for some signs of Mrs. Hudson. The lights on her apartment were turned off, she had gone to sleep. He let Molly go in front of him up the stairs and closed the door behind him after entering the living room, hanging his coat behind it. Molly sat on the couch, breathing deeply. She was exhausted. The bunch of bags of things she and Mrs. Hudson had bought was placed on the floor next to the couch. It had been nice of Mrs. Hudson to bring them with her.

"Tired?" Sherlock asked, removing his coat as well and unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt and the buttons of the sleeves. He ruffled through his hair, smiling at her.

Molly's heart gave a slight jump that she ignored.

"Yes, a little bit. It was a long day." She placed her hand on her belly.

"Well, there's still my present to… open." Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on her.

"What do you mean, your present? I took your card, which was more than enough presents for the day."

"That was not my present." He said. "That's my duty."

He extended his hand to her and she took it, getting up off the couch as he lifted her. She steadied herself.

"Okay, so where is that present then?"

"Upstairs." He let go of her hand and went up the stairs, taking a glance at Molly. She followed him, intrigued. What on earth could he have gotten her?

Sherlock opened the door of her room and let her in, without turning the lights on. Molly looked at it. It should all be dark, but it wasn't. Somehow, on the ceiling, she could see hundreds of stars shining. On one of the walls were also shiny things that she could not define what they were. She asked, in a whisper.

"What is it? It's shinning."

Molly could not see the satisfied smirk on his face as Sherlock turned on the light. As he did so, Molly's mouth fell open and, instinctively, she used one hand to cover it. She was not able to talk for a few minutes.

"My god." She finally said, entering the room. "This is beautiful."

It was all changed. Apart from the piano, placed where it had always been, everything was different. Molly looked around, not believing what her eyes were seeing. It was no longer her room; it was a baby's room. As she looked to the ceiling she could recognise now the source of light she had seen when the lights were off. There were little stars placed on the ceiling that shone in the dark. Hanging from transparent threads were planets falling and other stars. A big lamp with the shape of a moon was hanged on the right wall, where a baby crib had also been placed. A mobile was hanging on top of it, also with little stars and planets. Molly looked to her left and was even more mesmerized. All over the wall, with bright beautiful colours and a beautiful work art, was the painting of the solar system. It had been hand painted, graffiti, she recognized. She got closer to the baby crib, spinning the mobile. It started playing a lullaby. There was also a new wardrobe, with beautiful bright colours where her old wardrobe had been and right next to it a shelf painted with the same colours, filled with fairy tales. There was a place to change the baby, with diapers and towels. On the floor, next to the piano, was a small playground, made of fabric and with many toys inside already, cute toys, for a little baby. It was the most beautiful room she had ever seen and even better than any she could have ever imagined. She approached the wall painted with the solar system. The colour of the background resembled the one of the night skies and there were also tiny points to make it look like stars. There were magnets with the alphabet placed on a box on the floor.

Sherlock came close to her, showing her the magnets.

"It's magnetic paint." He said, pointing out the wall. "I had a friend get this painted with it. This way, when he or she grows up they can make the names of the planets with the magnets. We can't place them on the wall yet, the paint isn't completely dry"

Molly looked at him, lost for words. He smiled.

"Do you like it?"

Molly smiled back, unable to contain the tears now. She turned her back on him. Sherlock's smiled faded.

"What's wrong?" He asked, getting close to her and touching her back.

"It's just…" She looked at him. "I am just so happy!"

Sherlock laughed, removing a strand of her hair from her face.

"Well, that was the point."

She made a gesture, as if embracing the room.

"It's so beautiful. The colours, the wardrobe, the crib… It's so perfect. I would have never imagined something as perfect as this for our baby."

She sighed, unable to find other adjectives to express what she was feeling.

"Thank you." She said simply, looking at him.

Sherlock felt his heart shrink a little bit on his chest with the way she was looking at him. He swallowed the lump on his throat and turned his gaze away.

"You're welcome. I just wanted it to be special for you. I saw you looking at rooms on magazines and thought this would be just what you were looking for."

"It is." She said, pacing around and enjoying all the things he had bought. Even the placement was perfect. She wouldn't have made it better herself. And the painting on the wall was magnificent. Then she realised something.

"Hum… where is my bed?"

"Well, we had to disassemble it. It wouldn't fit in the room."

"Where am I going to sleep then?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair again.

"In my room."

Molly's stomach gave a slight jump. Sherlock explained.

"I moved all your things there. The sofa can turn into a sofa-bed in the living room, and it will be just fine for me. At least until the baby can move upstairs. It's a good idea, actually. Because it will cry, right? And if we are both downstairs then I can check on it during the night, when it cries. If you teach me how. So, we both better be close to each other."

Molly nodded, embarrassed to have thought they would actually sleep together. Of course that had never been Sherlock's plan. Still, his plan was good and, mostly, thoughtful.

"Thank you." She repeated.

"You're very welcome."

"And, where are my clothes?"

"In my closet now."

She smiled at him, taking a look at the room again. She would not get tired of looking at it, she was sure. She paced in the direction of the shelf. There were so many books to choose from. She let her fingers run through the binders and finally decided for a small one. She liked reading stories to the baby.

"I'll take this one." She said, pointing the book to Sherlock. He nodded, understanding.

"Do you want to sleep?" He asked, as she tried to supress a yawning.

"Yes." She admitted. "I am tired and it's been too many emotions for one day."

They went down the stairs, one after the other. Molly checked her things on Sherlock's room and picked her pyjamas up, going to take a shower. When she came back, fifteen minutes later, Sherlock had assembled the couch to become a bed and was trying to place some sheets on it. Trying was the right word, because he seemed to have trouble with it. Now Molly understood why her bed was also made fresh sometimes. Mrs. Hudson had never stopped making Sherlock's bed and would make her as well.

"Want some help with that?"

"No." He refused. "I got it."

"Don't be silly." She said, getting closer and helping him out. In less than three minutes the sheets were in place.

"Yes." Sherlock said, looking at the now made bed. "This seemed easy enough."

Molly laughed. She then asked.

"Wouldn't you like to read the baby a story?"

Sherlock looked at her, surprised.

"Read the baby a story? Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course I am sure. He has to get used to the sound of your voice, not only to the sound of your violin. The baby loves it, by the way. When you play."

Sherlock nodded again, unsure of what to answer that.

"Okay, then. I will read."

Molly smiled, pleased and Sherlock followed her to his own room. He was now getting used to give his things to Molly, give up on them for her. First, his chair, now the bed. And it was just fine.

Molly half sat, half laid on the bed and passed the book she had chosen to Sherlock. He opened the first pages and, as Molly started to stroke her belly in small movements, he started to read.

Molly delighted herself with the sound of his voice. It was low and deep, at a constant pace, with interjections when needed. The baby started to move in her belly and she smiled, surprised. Apparently it liked the sound of his voice as well. Sherlock continued, unaware of the effects his story telling was having on the baby. He had a gift to read stories. The baby kicked. Molly gave a little jump.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, closing the book and putting it down.

"It just kicked." She affirmed. "I am sure it likes to hear you read to him. Why don't you talk to it, maybe it will kick again and you can feel it."

Sherlock felt a bit ridiculous. Why would he talk to a belly? But he didn't want to disappoint Molly.

"What should I say?"

"Just tell a story, or call its name. I don't know."

Sherlock stared at the belly again. Molly, following his gaze lifted her shirt up, so he could see any movement. He decided to pick the book up again and continued with the story. As his voice read it out loud he saw some movements on the belly. He stopped reading, looking at it mesmerized.

Molly saw his open wide eyes and picked his hand, placing it on top of the belly, where she had felt the kick for the first time that evening. She then nodded at Sherlock and he continued to read. A few minutes later the baby kicked once more. Sherlock dropped the book and got closer to Molly.

"Oh my god, it kicked! I felt it!"

The emotion in his voice was clear and he placed both hands on her belly now, scanning for movement. He talked to the baby. Molly laughed as he started asking how the baby was and how was it like to live there. As she laughed the baby kicked again.

"Oh my god!" Sherlock repeated, this time looking at Molly. "It's amazing."

Molly smiled, tenderness in her eyes. Yes, it was amazing. But the most wonderful thing was the way Sherlock was reacting to it all. Like a child that had discovered a long lost toy. The movements stopped eventually and Sherlock, realising they would not continue anymore, removed his hands from her.

"That was amazing."

"He has been moving quite a bit, but today specially. I think it is proven that he likes your voice indeed."

Sherlock looked at her.

"Thank you." He said.

"For what?" Molly asked. She didn't see what he should thank her for when he was the one who was doing so many things for her.

"For this." He pointed at her belly. "For everything. For letting me be a part of it. For being patient."

She smiled and covered herself, tired. She really wanted to stay there and talk to him, but she was so tired.

"Do you mind if I continue reading for the baby?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course not." She said.

She laid down and Sherlock continued his story, sitting next to her. When he finished the book, which didn't take long, Molly was already sleeping profoundly. He planted a kiss on her forehead and left the room, lying down on the couch. He could get no sleep for a long time, not just because the couch was not comfortable at all, but because Mycroft words kept revolving on and on inside his head and the way he had felt the baby kick and move was too overwhelming for him to stop thinking at all.


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock woke up the next day with the light from the window hitting his eyes. He moved in what would now be his bed and felt the ache on his neck and back. Sleeping there was not going to be easy. He laid there for a while, thinking about the baby moving and kicking inside Molly's belly, just underneath his hand. He smiled. There was silence in the house. He expected Molly to still be in his room and got up, wondering if he should bother her. He decided to check on her. He got up, ruffling through his hair and arranging his pyjamas and put the kettle on. He was becoming very good at making tea. John would have been proud of him. He then went to his own room and opened the door that was slightly ajar. There was nothing there except for the unmade bed. Molly was not sleeping there. Then, where should she be.? Sherlock smiled, closing the door and getting away from the room. He knew exactly where she was.

Sherlock went up the stairs quietly and paced inside the room. Molly was sitting on the floor over a few pillows, her back to the wall, and was reading a book out loud, massaging her belly. Sherlock took a step and Molly looked up as he sat next to her on the pillows.

"I didn't see you pass me in the living room." He said, looking at her.

"I tried to be silent. I am pretty sure you probably slept very bad. That couch doesn't seem comfortable at all."

"It is." He lied.

Molly smiled but did not bring the subject up again. If he wanted to make the sacrifice she would let him. Not that it would matter if she tried to change his mind. Sherlock was stubborn.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, I did. The bed is comfortable. And the baby liked it too." Molly said, looking at her belly. The baby moved slower now. The space it had to move was now less, as it became bigger and bigger. Molly felt her heart swollen every time she thought about it. That baby would be the most loved baby in the world, she was completely sure of that.

Sherlock nodded, content. Molly looked at him, unsure if she should ask him or not. He noticed.

"What is it?"

Molly sighed.

"I am going to a prenatal exercises lesson advised by the doctor and I was wondering if you like to make me company. It's for couples and… well, I didn't want to be the only one there. If I like it I may continue, but it's the first time and I don't know anyone…"

She looked at her own extended feet. It was quite difficult to see her feet now when she stood up. The belly was way too big.

Sherlock thought about what she was asking. That would probably be the last place he wanted to go. But Molly needed his help and that was one way to help her, right? She was the one carrying the baby, so she had no choice. It was the least he could do.

"Yes, of course. I will go with you."

Molly looked up, surprised.

"Really?"

"Really." He nodded, with a brief smile.

Molly smiled back and started to get up, with some difficulty because of the belly. She realised sitting down like that had not been a very good idea. Sherlock helped her out, holding her hand in his. Their eyes met and he let go.

"I am going to meet Lestrade today. He needs me to testify about a case. But I will be home in time to go to the exercises." He said.

Molly nodded.

"Okay. I was thinking about going out to buy a few more things, I will probably take Mrs. Hudson with me again. We need some groceries."

"No." Sherlock said, turning around, as he was going to the door. "I'll do it on the way home. Just relax and enjoy a lazy day."

He then took a last look at her and left down the stairs. Molly put the book on its shelf and looked around the room again. She couldn't help but staring at it in amazement. It was so beautiful. Who would have guesses that Sherlock would do something like that? It was wonderful.

She came down the stairs as well just as Sherlock was putting on his coat. He gave her a smile and left the flat. She sat down, enjoying the tea he had left for her to drink and realised that she was just about to follow his advice. She would just stay there, sit and relax all day. Yes, it seemed like a good idea.

* * *

Sherlock got home a few hours later, a bag full of groceries in his hand. As he entered the living room he saw Molly asleep on the couch, a book placed over the belly. It was funny how she always seemed to fall asleep like that in the living room. She looked peaceful. He shook her a little bit, holding her shoulder. Molly opened her eyes, the light that still came from the window blinding her.

"Oh, sorry." She said, straightening herself. "I fell asleep."

She rubbed her eyes, suppressing a yawn. Sherlock took the book away from her and placed it over the table.

"You haven't gone out, then?" He asked.

"No." Molly got up, still a bit groggy and looked at her watch. "Oh, I need to get ready. The class is in less than an hour and I still have to change my clothes."

Sherlock nodded and sat on the couch, grabbing his violin as she left for the room. He started to play a melody, enjoying the warmth of the room. As he played Molly could feel the baby move more. She changed herself and looked in the mirror. She was so big.

"Okay, should we go?" She asked, coming out of the room.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock replied, getting up. He placed the violin on its stand and put the coat on again, closing the door behind him as Molly went down the stairs. They took a taxi and Molly gave the address to the taxi driver. They got to the gymnasium where the prenatal exercises session would take place. Molly, who had made the appointment a few weeks before, talked with the receptionist, who directed them to a room. There, to Sherlock's surprise, were already a few couples, very close to each other and talking about their pregnancies. Molly looked around but, taking a quick stare at Sherlock, decided that it would probably be better to avoid talking to strangers. He was unpredictable and she knew their situation was not the same as all the other couples in that room. They were all married, or at least lived together. Molly could sense the complicity in the way they stood close to each other, and the way both their faces brightened up as the coach who would help them with the exercises asked questions. The coach approached them, and as she had done with the other couples, invited them to sit on the floor, that was actually a huge mat. Sherlock and Molly sat in a corner, away from the attention. The coach waited for the whole class to settle down with a patient smile on her face. When everyone quieted down she spoke.

"Hello everyone. My name is Andrea, I will be your coach for today and for the next classes. I am glad you could all make it. I am hoping I can help you in the last three months of your pregnancy. This is an important time both for mothers and fathers, but of course our mummy's here have a tough time, so they need as much help as possible. These exercises are going to help you relax a little bit, be ready for the birth and it also keeps your muscles trained. If you wish, you can do these exercises at home as well, as long as you are cautious. Don't force things; just keep it as long as it is comfortable to you."

She looked around, at all the expectant faces that were paying attention to her words. Sherlock was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to have come after all.

"Okay, let's start with the exercises. I will let you know what you have to do and I will circle around the room to check on how you are doing the exercises and, if necessary, to correct postures."

She then got closer to a couple that stood in the front of the class.

"Okay, for our first exercise I will need you to sit in front of your partner and put the plant of your feet against the plant of his. You will obviously have to remove your shoes, if you haven't already. Please, leave some space between each couple so that you won't bump on each other." She asked from the different couples. They all did so, except for Sherlock and Molly. Molly was looking at Sherlock, waiting for him to move. "You two as well." The coach said, pointing at them. Sherlock felt the eyes of the whole class on them and, hesitantly, did as he had been told. He removed his shoes and then, as Molly had removed hers, placed his feet on hers. Her feet were tiny and tickled his.

The teacher helped the couple on the front, which would serve as example, to get the right position and everyone followed.

"Now, hold your hands and breathe normally."

Molly stretched her arms, asking for Sherlock's hands. He complied. Their gaze met but Molly, blushing, looked at her own feet.

"Now, boyfriends, husbands, partners, pull your lovely mummy's towards you, making sure she stretches her back well but keeps a good position."

Sherlock did so, pulling carefully. Moly felt her arm strings stretch slowly. Even if it wasn't much – the belly did not allow it – it felt good. She fest rigid lately, and she was sure these lessons would be precious.

"Now, back and forth, repeat a few times, always slowly." And so they did.

All couples were talking to each other, laughing together except them. Molly seemed more self-conscious than ever. The awkwardness on Sherlock's face wasn't helping.

"Is like this okay?" Sherlock asked, as his hands slid from Molly's. The coach came closer to them.

"No." She said, picking up a hand of Sherlock and one of Molly and interlacing them together. "You have to hold on tight. Otherwise your girlfriend will fall backwards." She advised, staring Sherlock in the eyes.

Sherlock, swallowing, nodded. Molly tried to hide a smile. He seemed scared with the coach's promptitude at dealing with them. But he held her hands tight.

The coach helped other couples and after a few minutes encouraged them to try another exercise.

"Okay, I need everyone standing now, we are trying something new and I will also help you with some breathing exercises." Everyone got up and turned to the coach. "Very well. I need you to stand in front of each other, our mums with the feet hip width apart." She waited for all of them to be ready. "Now, bend your knees slightly and here is where your partner will be needed. Grab each other by the waist. Now you will step forward and back. If the mum steps with her right leg forward, the daddy steps with his left back and vice versa. Everyone understood? Now you will bend your knees until you can and then return to the standing position. Daddy's, your help here is very important. Don't let the ladies fall, pull them up if they are too tired."

The men nodded and began with the exercise. As the coach expected, some positions had to be modified and improved. As she turned around she saw Molly and Sherlock. Sherlock was grabbing Molly only slightly and this one was having trouble to even bend her knees as she had no support. The coach got closer to them, hands on her hips, sighing.

"What is it with you both?" She asked, quietly. "Are you afraid to touch her?" She asked Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't answer, his eyes became colder but he looked also embarrassed. The coach grabbed his hands and placed them with a firm grasp on Molly's hip, who shook slightly.

"These are her hips. You have to hold them well or she may fall. Here, see. It's easy. Now, don't let go."

Sherlock looked at Molly in the eyes as the coach went away, leaving them alone for a moment to try and get the hang of the exercise. Sherlock grabbed Molly's hips tight, as he had been instructed, with both hands.

"I am sorry." He apologised.

"It's okay." Molly said, blushing.

Molly, with Sherlock's help, made the exercises a couple of times, until she was tired.

They sat on the mat, side by side, almost no space between them this time. All couples were now relaxing and talking to each other again, smiling. The men were hugging their wives and girlfriends and some were even touching the mummy's bellies as they talked about the babies. Molly was looking around, a mesmerized look on his face, as the coach prepared all she had needed for a small introduction about the time of birth and other tips on how to handle the baby. They would still have a few classes before the big day, but the coach was filling them on what they would be learning.

Sherlock followed Molly's gaze. A couple was sitting, the woman with her back against her man's chest and they were looking at a picture of the baby's ultrasound they had brought with them. They seemed so happy and passionate, talking about how it hadn't been easy to get pregnant but, after years, they had finally made their dream come true. Sherlock understood that what he and Molly had was something that many couples fought for, sometimes their whole life, without ever achieving it. He wasn't sure how that made him feel. Scrutinizing again through Molly's face and the way she looked at the couple, he looked down, at her hand placed on the mat, and he held it, putting his fingers on the space between hers. Molly's heart gave a small jump and she looked at their hands together and then faced Sherlock. He smiled for a second and Molly smiled back. She closed her fingers on his and looked at the coach, too scared to face him again. The butterflies on her stomach seemed bigger than ever and Robyn was moving slowly. She placed her free hand on top of her belly, trying to calm down. Robyn kicked. Maybe it was her reaction to her mother's happiness.

An hour and half after they had started the class they got out of the building where the classes were, still holding hands. Sherlock hadn't let go and Molly, though her hands were slightly sweaty, refused to be the first to let go. Sherlock raised his free hand, calling a taxi.

"So, what did you think?" Molly asked, looking at him. He hadn't said a word since he had held her hand.

"It's… scary." He admitted.

Going again through all the explanations about childbirth that the coach had given, Sherlock wasn't sure how Molly could remain so calm. She would be the one having the child, and all those things scared him.

Molly seemed a little disappointed.

"Well, I guess it must be. But it's okay, you don't need to worry. You don't have to be in the delivery room when I have the baby. Not all dads stay. And I can always ask Mrs. Hudson to make me company. I wouldn't like to be alone."

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said, looking at her as a taxi finally stopped. "Of course I will be there. I want to be there. It's my baby as well, after all." He said.

Molly got into the taxi smiling, looking at the window so Sherlock wouldn't see. It was the first time he referred to Robyn as "his baby." That sounded nice. Right.

As the taxi drove away Sherlock looked at the window as well. Molly's hand felt warm in his. He should let go now. But he didn't.

* * *

Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night, not sure why. As he sat on the couch, rubbing his eyes, he thought he heard something. It came from Molly's room. He got up and took that direction, opening the door carefully. As the image of Molly showed up before his eyes he saw she was trembling. The noise he had heard was of her sobbing. He entered the room and sat next to her. Molly looked at him, noticing his presence and tried to conceal her tears, hiding her face on the pillow she had been holding for the last fifteen minutes.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. He had placed his back on the bed frame, keeping his distance from her.

Molly shook her head.

"It's…"

But her words were drowned by the sobs again. Sherlock wasn't sure of what to do or what she needed. Molly found her voice at last.

"What if… what if I am horrible…"

"Horrible?" Sherlock asked, without understanding.

"Yes!" Molly said, angry he didn't understand. "What if I am a horrible mother? What if I don't know how to feed her, or dress her, or even hug her? What if she cries the whole night and I can't comfort her? What if…"

She broke down again. Sherlock smiled, relieved and feeling immensely sorry for her. So, it was that. He shortened the distance between them and got closer to her, putting an arm over her shoulders. Molly looked at him, her eyes red from crying, and letting go of the pillow leaned her head against his chest, holding him by his pyjamas.

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. He was not one for comforting. He was trying, though. "You are going to be an excellent mother. Am sure there will not be a baby more… loved than her or him."

"What if I am not?" She asked.

"That's not possible. You have a gigantic heart, Molly Hooper. If you were ever able to feel anything for someone like… me. Then you will have no trouble loving anyone else."

The words came out of his mouth like that, and he meant them. He was not worth being loved. She was not afraid to love back. So, how could she not be able to take care of a little baby? They used to say love was all it took; the rest came with time, didn't they?

Molly looked at him, understanding how much he underestimated himself. Understanding, for the first time, what he thought about himself. Underneath the layer of cold and un-attachment was a man who thought he was not worth loving.

"Look at me." He asked, placing a hand on her chin. "You are the most amazing human being I have ever met. And I mean it. You are courageous, but caring. You can be strong but sweet. That's what everyone says about you, you can believe it. Actually, I truly believe you may even win the award for best mum in the universe one day. And I will be here to see it."

Molly cleaned the tears on her face, relaxing a little.

"Thank you." She said.

She put her pillow back behind her head and lied down. Sherlock removed his arm from her shoulders and began to get up. Molly pulled him by the hand.

"Please, don't go. I don't want to be alone. And we both know how crappy that sofa-bed is."

Sherlock thought about refusing. About giving her a kiss on the cheek and let go and close the door behind him. But, as Molly's huge eyes looked through his, he could not bring himself do it. He nodded and lied down next to her, as Molly leaned on him again, falling asleep to the rise and fall of his chest.

A while later Sherlock placed his hand slowly over Molly's belly and felt the baby move in slow movements. He smiled and fell asleep finally, the baby's movements working as a lullaby.

The couch went back to its old function and was never opened as a bed again.


	30. Chapter 30

**Month Nine**

Molly was sitting on the chair, hearing Sherlock telling her about his last case. He was pacing back and forward, like a kid who was telling a very interesting story and couldn't stay quiet. He gestured with his hands, explaining how he had figured it out. Molly smiled, entertained by his lack of humbleness instead of threatened by it. It was funny how he could be so euphoric about his own geniality. The fact that he was telling her that in that tone of happiness kept her mind away from the contractions, that she was now feeling more and more often. Still, she had called the hospital and they had said that she should only consider going there if the contractions became four to six contractions every two hours in a row. That was not yet the case, but they hurt. They were painful. Once in a while she would flinch at the pain. There was nothing she could do but wait, and Sherlock's story was at least keeping her busy and distracted.

The last couple of months had been an anxiety time. The idea of becoming a mother became also more shaped, more real. It was closer and closer. She could not deny she was afraid. The birth and all its implications were starting to scare her and there was something that had been one her mind for a while. What if something went wrong? What if she didn't survive? The baby would be alone in the world. She knew well that Sherlock would take care of the baby, wouldn't he? Yes, he would. She was almost sure he would. Still, without her, what would Sherlock do? The thought scared her more than she was willing to admit to herself. She didn't want to think about this. After all, her pregnancy had been as normal as one pregnancy could be. No risks, no problems, just smooth and ordinary. Why should the birth go wrong? But, as much as she tried to convince herself of this there was no use, there was still a little part of her that was afraid of what might happen. Not just to her, but to the baby. What if something happened to the baby? Molly had been all this time fantasising about his or her face, the smile, little hands, everything. About holding the baby in her arms and give the baby all the love in the world. What if she couldn't? Would her mother's heart be able to overcome a tragedy? As a new contraction went through her she dismissed the thoughts. No, this was no time to think about it. Looking at Sherlock she realised that he had no idea what she was going through. She hadn't mentioned the contractions, the pain and even though the forty weeks had ended, Sherlock was not aware that the baby could be born any minute now. He just didn't know. Thank God she had taken care of everything she needed in case they had to go to the hospital.

The light of the day was starting to fade away outside the window, and little bits of dust hung in the air. Molly thought it was beautiful.

"Oh, and you have no idea what John did!" Sherlock said, stopping for a moment, hands open and arms extended in front of him.

Molly shook her head.

"What?" She asked.

"He punched him! Like, a really big punch! He was so mad!"

"John?" Molly asked, not believing John could hurt a fly, talk about punching a man in the face.

"Yes! He punched him and the guy was caught by surprise and just fell on the floor. What a wimp!" Sherlock laughed, putting his hands on his pocket and giving another turn.

Molly laughed, imagining the scene. As she did so she felt something between her thighs. Sherlock was looking through the window now and Molly got up. She was getting soaked bit by bit. She knew that could only mean one thing. A new contraction hit her even before she had said the words.

"Sherlock. I think my water broke."

Sherlock looked at her, hands still on his pockets, the smile still on his face.

"What?" He asked, getting close to her.

Molly kept feeling the water fall down her legs.

"My water broke. I am going to have the baby." she stopped as a new contraction made her flinch. "We need to go to the hospital now."

She was saying the words in pauses, still not believing that was actually happening. Sherlock just stood there, looking at her, eyes wide open.

Molly got up and looked around.

"Okay, I am going to get a towel or something; you need to get my things. There's a bag upstairs with…"

Sherlock hadn't moved.

"Sherlock? Are you listening?" Molly said, looking at him.

"Yes." But he didn't move.

"I need to go to the hospital! Move! Get my things, it's a white bag, it's upstairs. We need to go now."

Sherlock got out of the trance and approached Molly, holding her arms with both his hands.

"You're having the baby? You are having the baby now?" He repeated.

"Well, if you hurry and take me to the hospital I might." Molly said.

As strange as it might seem, she was feeling quite calm right now. But that's the way she usually reacted to stress situations. In this case, there was no use in panicking. She needed to get a towel, get out of the door, stop a taxi and leave to the hospital.

Sherlock let go of her, storming up the stairs. She had said the bag was there. A white bag. The thoughts kept storming to his mind.

"Oh my god, oh my God, she's having the baby, she's having the baby. What do I do now?"

He looked around in the baby room and found it easy to spot the bag. It was a baby's bag. Molly said it had everything she needed, but it was so small. Was she sure she wouldn't need anything else? What if there was something missing? Why hadn't she asked for his help to make that bag? Not that he knew anything about it, but now at least he could be checking if everything was in place and if nothing was missing, right? Two people think better than just one. What did he have to do?

Moly's angry voice sounded from downstairs and Sherlock decided he would have to trust her. There was no time to check the bag.

"Here, it's here."

"Of course it's there, it was in an easy place to spot. Let's go, we need to take a taxi."

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance instead?"

"No, a taxi will be faster. Let's go."

Molly went towards the door and opened it, grabbing the handle down the stairs. Sherlock had frozen in place. She looked back.

"Sherlock, if you could get the taxi ready for when I get downstairs that would be great."

Sherlock nodded his head, storming out of the apartment and passing Molly.

"Sherlock!" Moly called. What on earth was happening to that man right when she needed him to focus?

"You forgot the bag."

Sherlock looked at the floor of the living room. With all Molly was saying he had placed the bag on the floor and had forgotten it. He took a deep breath. He walked in the apartment, picked the bag up and left to the street to call a taxi, while Molly descended the stairs as fast as she could manage. In the street Sherlock was trying to remember anything he had read about pregnancy and birth but for the first time his mind was a blur. Nothing, he could not remember anything. How would he be able to help Molly if he couldn't remember anything of what he was supposed to do? He said he would be in the delivery room, but what if he wasn't able to help her? He looked at his own hands. They were shaking.

As he raised a hand, remembering why he was there in the middle of the street with a bag full of baby things, Molly came out the door, holding the belly. The taxi stopped and Sherlock walked in, yelling at the taxi driver.

"To the hospital as fast as you can!"

Only when the taxi had ridden almost a kilometre did he notice he had forgotten Molly. The taxi came back and Sherlock helped Molly getting in, deeply apologising. Molly just shook her head and smiled. She was more amused now with his clumsiness than scared.

The trip to the hospital didn't take long. Molly was counting the contractions all the way there. They happened more often. Sherlock helped Molly get out of the taxi and paid the taxi driver. Molly grabbed the white bag, before Sherlock forgot it.

As they entered Sherlock approached the reception and Molly followed.

"We are having a baby." Sherlock said to the lady, fear in his wide open eyes.

"Congratulations!" The lady behind the desk said. A scared father. She knew way too many to keep count.

"No." Sherlock repeated. "We are having a baby as in we are having a baby now."

"Well, we'll see about that. Or the nurses and doctors will."

Molly smiled at the receptionist.

"My water broke. The contractions are quite frequent and last for more than thirty seconds each."

"Very well." The receptionist said. "Just go to that door, someone will get you there. And you, sir." She said, turning to Sherlock. "Please, wait for my return. I will just get someone to take your wife and I will need you to fill in some papers for me."

Sherlock followed her with his eyes as she disappeared behind a sliding door. Sherlock turned to Molly.

"What? But, what am I going to do here? I need to be with you. I am not going to stay here!"

"Sherlock, she needs some of my data. I may not have the baby for at least a few hours, but they need to check on me. They will take you to me as soon as they think it's appropriate. I need to go now."

And leaving him there alone and with a fearful look upon his face she left to meet the nurse who would take her to the waiting room until it was time to give birth.

"Okay, now. You." The receptionist had come back. "Sit there and fill this in, please. I will call you as soon as I know anything about your wife."

Sherlock nodded and got away, lost, not sure of what to do. He sat at a bench. There were many people there, waiting to be seen. He did not belong there. Molly was going to have a baby. His baby. He should be next to her. He looked at the papers, realising there were a lot of things there he didn't know. He tried to focus but that just wouldn't do. He took a deep breath and began to fill what he did know. As he finished he got up.

"This is all I have." He gave the papers to the receptionist.

She looked at it, at Sherlock and then at the papers again.

"This is not much to go with. I will see where your wife is and I will come back to you. I'll take the papers so she can fill the rest."

Sherlock nodded and the woman left. The adrenaline was still on his body and he could feel his legs shaking as well. He picked up his phone and made the call.

"Hello?"

"John? It's Sherlock." He stopped, the magnitude of what it was about to happen hitting him. "Molly is going to have the baby. I am going to be a father."

As the words came out of his mouth he smiled. It was happening. He was going to be a father.

"Really? Where are you?"

"At the hospital. Can you come?" He inquired, so much hope in that simple question.

On the other side of the phone he could almost feel the grin on John's face.

"Of course. I'll be there as fast as I can."

Sherlock hung up and put the phone on his pocket. The receptionist had come back.

"Come on, then. There's still a little bit of time until your girl has her baby, but you better stay next to her. Trust me, contraction's pains are no sweet pea. And it's only going to get worse."

And with no more talk she came out from behind the desk and took him to Molly.

* * *

Please note that I have never been a mum, and all I know about birth and all that it involves, was with the help of the amazing Robyn and some research (and research can be so difficult sometimes.) So I am trying to be as accurate as possible. Thanks for reading, I will have more to update soon.


	31. Chapter 31

This chapter was quite challenging to write, but in the end, and after quite a lot of research, I had quite some fun. It's dear to me and I hope you like it. (I may or may have not cried a bit). Enjoy it.

* * *

The receptionist left him by the door of the waiting room, where Molly was now sitting on a bed, holding her belly with a hand and teeth clenched together. Sherlock walked close to her as a nurse entered the room and put some gloves on.

"How are you feeling?" He asked. That seemed like a vacant question, but he was not sure of what else to ask.

Molly looked at him and smiled, nodding her head.

"A little bit of pain." She cringed again, trying to conceal the scream that was about to escape her mouth.

The nurse approached them, smiling at Sherlock and then at Molly.

"Okay, darling." She said to Molly. It was an old woman and she seemed friendly. "I am going to have to check a few things. How are the contractions?"

Molly took a deep breath.

"Quite regular. Do you think it is time for delivery?"

The nurse smiled.

"I have the impression you will still have to wait a little, honey. But we'll see."

Another contraction hit Molly, making her grab the sheet of the bed with her hand. She could not avoid groaning a little this time. Sherlock cringed as well, mimicking her face. What the hell could he do? Molly was there, in pain. The nurse said it may take a while for the baby to be born. But she had said her water broke. Didn't that mean they had to deliver the baby? He had a vague idea of reading something about it somewhere but he couldn't focus now. He needed to go to his mind palace. He needed to remember. He stepped away.

"Where the hell are you going?" Molly asked, a bit too loud, while the nurse checked the baby movements on a monitor.

Sherlock turned around.

"I need to remember something. I need to think. I need to go to my mind palace." He said, simply. His legs were still shaking.

"Are you kidding me right now?" Molly called. Her face had changed to something Sherlock could not decipher. "I am in pain, Sherlock. Oh, God, you really don't get it."

The words kind of shook Sherlock. He thought about telling her that she was better off with him if he remembered something he had read, but something on Molly's face made him reconsider. No, maybe saying that was not exactly a good idea after all. He came back next to her.

The nurse was still smiling and began to talk to Molly, to distract her.

"First time parents?" She asked.

Molly nodded.

"It's going to be fine." The nurse said.

"Well, you're not feeling the pain I am feeling." Molly said, a bit rude.

Sherlock didn't know what to say; rude was usually his area, not Molly's, who was probably the most polite person in the world.

"Trust me, I do. Three times."

Molly closed her eyes and clenched both her fists now, taking a deep breath through the nose, trying to send the pain away.

"Three times?" She asked the nurse, as the pain faded gradually. "Are you insane?"

This time the nurse really laughed.

"How are those contractions?" She asked.

"Hurting like bloody hell."

Sherlock's face went from Molly to the nurse. He was appalled. The nurse didn't seem surprised at all.

"On a scale from 0 to 10 how would you define the pa…"

"Definitely twenty." Molly answered, before the nurse could actually finish the question.

The nurse laughed for real this time.

"I am sorry I am laughing, darling, but we have women saying things like this here every day. And if you think these contractions are bad, you are really going to love when the real ones begin."

Molly looked at Sherlock, a panicked face. Real ones? So, did the nurse mean the contractions would become worse? She was probably crazy. Molly felt like there were sharp knives piercing through her. God damn it, she could not understand how on earth had she been so happy to actually have the baby. Now she just wished she had more time, and that he could stay inside her belly like before, no contractions, for a long, long time, until she was prepared for this. A new contraction hit. She would never be prepared for this.

In the meantime, monitored by Sherlock, the nurse was checking on Molly's cervix. As Sherlock saw what she was about to do he turned his face away, pacing away from the bed for a little bit. He had seen her naked once but that just seemed like prying. There were a lot of things about pregnancy and the birth itself Sherlock had not put into question. Dear lord, had he been stupid.

"Okay, darling, it's still a bit early for you to deliver. I advise you to get up and walk a little bit. The contractions shall not hurt so badly if you do. I will come here regularly, so don't worry. If the contractions do become worse even if you are standing just call me and I will come right away, okay?" She looked at both of them. "It's going to be fine." She then turned to Sherlock. "Keep her busy, walk with her for a little, just distract her. And don't be so shy. You made a baby together; you may as well look at all of her now."

And without adding anything else the nurse went away, throwing the glove in the garbage.

Sherlock looked down at Molly, more embarrassed now than ever, blushing. Molly smiled, trying to get up. Sherlock held her hand.

"Did I ever tell you the story of when I used Mycroft's umbrella to fly off the stairs?"

Molly looked up, as they both walked around the room in small paces. Sherlock squeezed her hand as she stopped, feeling a new contraction. The nurse must have been right; it did hurt, but not as much. Molly shook her head. Sherlock smiled and proceeded.

"The umbrella he always carries around was a gift from our grandfather. Well, it was more of an inheritance. Mycroft was crazy about him and when he died they let him keep the umbrella. He would, as he still does, carry it around everywhere. And in London, he does have a good reason for that." Sherlock looked at Molly, pausing again. "One day, I was four years old and I remember it was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and I was playing with some cars in the living room. My parents had left for a social gathering, or a party, I can't really recall it, and they had left me and Mycroft at home alone, apart from our maid, who would be leaving as soon as they got home, and was busy taking care of the dinner for that night. There was a movie playing on TV where these ladies were flying with umbrellas. And I just ran to Mycroft, saying some ladies were flying with some umbrellas just like his. I demanded to know why he had never told me his umbrella would allow him to fly." He laughed. "Mycroft sat with me and explained that people couldn't really fly with umbrellas; that's when I learnt about the law of gravity. I remember Mycroft, who was eleven years old, just petting me in the head, messing all my hair up. I can really recall the grin on his face as he stepped away, amused by my innocence. What he didn't know was that I was so upset, so very upset! Because he had made me feel like I was stupid, you see. I hated that. So I sneaked to his room and took the umbrella. I was sure that if those ladies on TV could do it, I could do it. I was a pirate, and pirates fear nothing."

Molly looked at him, without understanding what he meant with that.

"Sorry, you were a pirate?"

Sherlock nodded, an almost childish smile on his face.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to be when I was a child. A fearless pirate." He shrugged. "So, as a fearless pirate, I was determined to fly like the ladies. I was sure I could do it, in spite of Mycroft's explanation. And I would prove him wrong. I would prove to him, that for the first time, I was the wise one. So I grabbed the umbrella, I opened it, I went to the top of the stairs, and next thing I knew Mycroft's law of gravity was actually true."

As he looked at her laughing, a shine she had rarely seen on his eyes, Molly felt her heart burst inside her chest. She was seeing now, in that brief moment, the child Sherlock had been, the one he still conserved inside him, in a very remote and hidden place. And she could swear in that moment that she had never loved him more.

A searing pain went through her and she grabbed Sherlock's arm for steadiness, thinking that she might even have jumped in a pool of lemon juice with open wounds all over her body. That was her twenty on the scale.

"Molly?" Sherlock called, helping her sit on the bed.

"Call the nurse." Molly demanded, yelling. He tried to let go of her hand but Molly was gripping with a strength he didn't think she had.

"You have to let go of my hand." He said.

"No, I don't want you to go." Molly said, another contraction making her contort on the bed. "Call the nurse!" She yelled again.

Sherlock removed her fingers, which felt now like claws from his arm, and gave a little twirl before he exited the room to look for someone who could help him. A nurse was just coming by, to check on Molly.

"Oh, real contractions now?" The nurse asked, even before Sherlock could say anything. He nodded.

She approached Molly.

"So, in a scale from…"

"A hundred and bloody fifty!" Molly shouted, almost jumping from the bed. If she could crawl up the walls, she would have.

"Okay, they seem for real now." The nurse said. She put on another glove and checked Molly's cervix again. She ignored Sherlock 'turn the face away' movement. "I see some progression here. I am going to call the doctor. I think you are going to finally deliver that baby, honey."

She smiled as an encouragement and left the room once again.

When she came back, she brought the doctor who would be delivering the baby with her. The doctor smiled at Molly, giving her words of encouragement. He checked Molly's cervix as well, seeing if there was dilatation enough. Molly was now holding Sherlock's hand in such a tight grip he felt she might tear his arm off. But he did not complain.

"Get her ready." The doctor instructed the nurse. "Are you going to assist the delivery as well?" He asked Sherlock, trying to induce both he and Molly to calm down. Sherlock, with a throat too dry to talk just nodded. "Very well, then. You will come with us as well."

He then looked at Molly. She would let groans escape from her lips from time to time, closing her eyes with the pain.

"The mummy is ready to deliver. It's going to be fine."

He then stepped away, as the nurse helped Molly to go to the delivery room. Molly thought that everyone told her that day that she was going to be fine, that it all was going to be fine. If they were felling the kind of pain she was feeling they would know fine was not a bloody good word to use on this case. It made her furious!

Sherlock found himself being guided to the room where they were taking Molly. The nurse told him he would not need a scrub unless they had to perform a C-section, what shouldn't be the case. She advised him to remove his jacket and the scarf. Sherlock didn't even notice he was still wearing them. He did as the nurse said, feeling a lot lighter. His legs had not stopped shaking. And he realised he had never had the chance to go to his mind palace and his head was now a big black blur. Molly would hate him so much. As he finally was put next to her, not so sure where he should go to, but deciding to stand by her head side, he could only think about how much Molly would blame him for being so incapable. Not that she could be able to think about that now. Grabbing her hand and feeling her nails biting into his skin he realised she was in even more pain than before. The words she was saying to the nurses were not the kindest he had heard. Molly was now, as the nurses advised, trying to focus on her breathing. The look she gave him meant he needed to focus on her breathing too. He started to breath with her. He realised it was a good idea. He was feeling a little dizzy. There was a chair and he sat. He didn't think his legs could endure more standing.

At that point, the nurse removed his hand from hers gently, preparing Molly for the epidural. Sherlock looked at all the process. For the second time that day he thought women had to be crazy to go through that sort of things. Molly would certainly deserve a hundred foot massages and a fridge full of ice cream buckets when all of that was over.

Half an hour later Molly had calmed down a little and was apologising to everybody in the room for her unkind words. Sherlock relaxed a bit, as she looked at him and smiled, squeezing his hand in hers.

Sherlock got up and stood on Molly's side, seeing the doctors and nurses working on Molly and getting her ready to have the baby. He had never felt so scared in his life.

Molly was following the doctor's instructions carefully to pull. The contractions were now just a small pinch and holding Sherlock's hand was making her feel better. She looked at him. He was pale. But he was holding her hand and looking at her, never moving his gaze from her face.

Suddenly, with a last push, there was a cry in the room. The world had finally welcomed their baby. Molly, exhausted from all the strength she had to find to help the baby out of herself, gave a sigh of relived and laid down on the pillow, not strong enough anymore to held Sherlock's hand by herself.

"Oh, look what we have here!" The doctor said, touching now the umbilical cord. "Do you want to know?"

Now that all had gone well, he was teasing them. Molly nodded, and Sherlock, suddenly not afraid anymore, at the sight of that little rosy thing covered in blood, nodded as well.

"Congratulations! It's a baby girl!"

Sherlock looked at Molly, a huge smile on his face. He knew it was a girl. He had always known.

"So, you want to cut the umbilical cord?" He asked Sherlock, who still had a stupid smile on his lips.

Sherlock looked at the doctor, not really apprehending the question, but he felt himself letting go of Molly's hand and approaching the doctor and the baby. His baby. The doctor passed him the scissors. Sherlock hand was shaking more than ever and he focused to make it stop. He cut it right where the doctor said and it was it. The baby was now free. The doctor brought the baby to Molly, placing her on top of Molly. Molly held her in her arms. She was beautiful. Sherlock got close to them, picking the little girl's hand but leaving it again, unsure if he could touch it.

"It's okay." Molly said. Big, round tears came down from her eyes and Sherlock cleaned them with his hand. He was sure he had never seen that expression on Molly's face before, as she looked at Robyn. He touched the baby's hand then. It was so tiny, wrapped up in his.

The doctor got close to them again, ready to take the baby so it could be washed and taken care of.

"May… may I hold her?" Sherlock asked, before they could take it away from Molly, who was staring at her delighted. Sherlock was not sure why on earth he was asking to hold the baby; he didn't even have any idea on how to do it. She was so small.

"Of course." The doctor said.

Molly passed him the baby and he held her carefully, as if he had always done that. She fit so perfectly there, in his arms. Her tiny face was round and she had so much hair. It was light brown, just like Molly's. She was the single most adorable thing he had ever seen. And she was his.

He finally had to give her back to the doctor, feeling something in his chest he had never felt before. He didn't know what it was for sure, but as the nurses started to take care of Molly and he sat on the chair next to her, both their hands still with blood from holding the baby, he didn't mind not labelling it. He removed Molly's hair from her face, cleaning the sweat with some tissues. And, to Molly's surprised, he planted a kiss on her cheek and, finally remembering something he had read on all those books, he whispered.

"Good job, mummy."

Molly gave him a tired smile and thought that, yes; they had both done a very good job.


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock came out of the room Molly, Robyn and himself would occupy for at least one night. It had been the nurse who had insisted he went for a walk.

When Robyn had been brought back to her mother, they had stood there, just looking at her in the baby clothes that still looked big on her. She was so tiny. And she was hungry. Sherlock stepped away for a minute when Molly started feeding Robyn, but Molly called him back. If they were going to do this, they would do it together. He couldn't just feel embarrassed at the sight of her breast every time she had to feed Molly. Sherlock had sat at her side, reluctantly. When Molly had finished, he asked to hold Robyn again and had kept her in his arms for a long time, without moving. That had been when the nurse came in, saying the baby would be better off in her own bed, if they didn't want to create bad habits. Something on Sherlock's stare must have made the nurse advise him to go and get some air, taking the baby from him and putting her in her own bed. Sherlock didn't really want to go but he complied at last. He paced out of the hospital, walking through the waiting room.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned as he heard the voice calling his name.

"John!" He had totally forgotten about John.

"I sure damn am!" John said, approaching him. He was not angry, just a little bored of waiting for so long.

"Oh, God, I am sorry. I completely forgot about you." Sherlock apologised, taking his hands to his own head. "How long have you been waiting?"

"A few hours." John said, amused now.

"I am so sorry."

John dismissed the apology with a gesture of his hand.

"It's okay, don't worry. So, has it been born yet?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said, remembering why John was there. "Yes, it has! It's a girl!"

John looked at his friend, as he placed both hands on each side of his arms, unable to contain his enthusiasm. He had never seen him like that before.

"Congratulation, daddy!" John said, laughing now as well.

"Oh, you have to see her." Sherlock said, pacing away towards the room again with John on his heels. "She's so tiny. I don't think I have ever seen anyone so tiny!"

John smiled and Sherlock entered the room, where Molly was lying down on her bed, Robyn sleeping peacefully by her side. Molly was caressing Robyn's head gently with her hand, a look of adoration on her face. She looked up as they entered the room.

"Hey!" She said, seeing John.

"Hey, how are you doing?" The smile on John's face mimicked hers and he approached the bed, kissing Molly on the cheek and squeezing her shoulder, as if congratulating her for what she had just been through.

"I am fine." Molly said, nodding with her head.

"So, this is our tiny baby, Miss Robyn Hooper Holmes?"

Molly smiled at the way her name sounded. John leaned down next to the bed, stroking Robyn's back very softly.

"She seems so peaceful." He said.

"She has a full stomach now." Molly explained. "Not hungry anymore."

"She's so cute!" It seemed like John would squeal at the sight of baby. "Can I hold her?"

Molly consented, holding Robyn in her arms and passing her to John's. He rocked the baby in his arms and moved her ever so slightly.

"She has got so much hair!" He noticed. And turned to Sherlock. "It is curly, just like yours!"

Sherlock smiled, getting next to John and looking at his daughter. It was true. Even if she did have the same light brown colour as Molly, it was curly and thick.

"Wow, this is amazing." John said, amused. "She's a perfect tiny little thing."

He passed Robyn back to Molly, who placed her on the bed again. The baby sighed and continued sleeping. Sherlock placed a chair next to John so he could sit and stood there himself, looking at Robyn again. It seemed like he couldn't get enough of it. A slight smile danced on his lips. John saw his face and smiled at Molly, who noticed it as well.

"So, how did the deliver go?"

"It was not as bad as I expected." Molly admitted. "The contraction's pain was awful but after the epidural it went all a lot smoother."

"Ah, yes. Did you insult him a lot?" He pointed at Sherlock. "The nurses as well, maybe?" John asked, remembering how it had been with Mary.

Molly blushed.

"You know, I can't really remember. It is all a big blur." She pretended, a guilty look on her face. John laughed. "Well, at least, unlike this one here," Molly said, pointing at Sherlock with her head. "I did not try to run away to my mind palace."

"What?"

Sherlock got a chair to himself and sat next to Molly, in front of John.

"I wasn't… I was trying to remember what to do."

John shook his head.

"Unbelievable." He laughed once more. "And you didn't faint or anything?"

"Of course I didn't faint." Sherlock seemed insulted for real now. "I cut the umbilical cord." He announced, very proud of himself.

"I am appalled." John affirmed.

He looked at Sherlock, who had smiled at him and was now gazing at Robyn again, the same adoration face he had seen Molly wear when he walked in the room. John was sure that those two, one way or another, would be good parents. They would figure out everything as time went by. He was proud of both. Especially of Sherlock, who had changed so much, more than John could ever think possible.

John hung out at the hospital for a while, but it was late and the visiting hours ending. With a kiss on Molly's cheeks, a squeeze on Sherlock's shoulder and a last gentle rub on little Robyn's back he left them alone, pacing happily home.

Later on, Sherlock approached the window, as Molly fed the baby once again, her tiny hand placed over Molly's chest as she ate. Molly looked at Sherlock, staring outside the window, to the stars in the night sky. Sherlock sensed her stare on him and smiled, coming closer to the bed. He played with Robyn's hand with one finger and Robyn squeezed it with her tiny hand. His heart rate increased, beating strong on his chest.

"Are you okay?" He asked Molly, sitting next to her.

Molly nodded, without adding anything.

The nurses had already come to open the couch, what would allow him to sleep there as well, next to Molly. As expected, Molly had brought everything that was necessary with her, on the baby's bag she had asked Sherlock to fetch. That had included a new change of clothes for Sherlock and his pyjamas. Molly did think about everything.

Sherlock helped Molly place Robyn on her small bed, between the couch and Molly's bed, and waited for Robyn to fall asleep. Her chest went up and down in regular movements. Molly fell asleep a while later, tired but grateful.

Sherlock picked up the teddy bear Molly had brought with her and had placed on Robyn's bed. It was the same she had always over her piano. Sherlock wondered what its story was. Taking a better look at it he could easily figure it out. He put the teddy bear back next to Robyn's head and left to change into his pyjamas. As he came back he kissed Robyn carefully and, looking at Molly, placed a kiss on her forehead as well. He then lied down, covering himself, thinking that life had a way to give us things we didn't even know we needed or wished. He was still scared, but didn't they say being brave meant you were supposed to overcome your fears? Taking a last look at Robyn he was sure he could no, he _would_, be brave, just for her.


	33. Chapter 33

It's been so long since I last updated! I am so sorry! I have been writing other small fics and was also a little unsure on how to take this story where I want it to go. Still, I think I managed to focus on something I really wanted for this chapter. I hope you guys like it. My next update may take a week as I have friends coming from my hometown to spend some days, but I will update as soon as possible. Thanks for reading! :)

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Sherlock picked his cup of tea and walked through the corridor, to his room. He opened the door and looked inside, seeing the light of the day getting in through the window. As he walked in he saw Molly sleeping in the middle of the bed, with Robyn also sleeping in her arms. Molly's breast was uncovered and Sherlock realised she had been feeding Robyn and they had both fallen asleep.

He approached the bed and sat down, puling Molly's shirt down, to cover her. Molly woke up immediately, looking at him. She looked tired, weary.

"Hello." He said. He had been out all night, working on a case. It had turned out to be something very different from what he initially thought and he had gotten home just as the first rays of sun were shinning, welcoming a new day.

"Hello." Molly said, with a sigh. Robyn hadn't been sleeping very well and Molly had been up almost the whole night, trying to soothe her. The second time she woke up she tried to call Sherlock for help but figured out he was gone.

Molly looked at her arms.

"Oh, god." She exclaimed, putting herself together, a fearful look on her face.

"What is it?" Sherlock could sense some change in the environment but he could not really put his finger to what it was that was different.

"I could have let her fall." Molly said, placing Robyn on her cradle that had been changed to their room, next to the wall on Molly's side.

"Well, she was in your lap."

"Yes, and I fell asleep with her on my lap. It's not right. What if I moved and let her fall?"

Molly was upset and Sherlock could see it now. She was angry and he knew she would burst against him at the first chance. He decided to leave her alone. Big mistake, he realised very soon.

"Oh, so you are leaving again?" Molly asked, after making sure Robyn was okay and turning to Sherlock, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Sherlock turned around, the mug still on his hand, unsure of what to say.

"She's sleeping now." He tried, serious.

Molly didn't say anything; she just shook her head and passed Sherlock by the door, bumping slightly into him as she left the room. Sherlock didn't understand her rage and he didn't like things that made no sense. He followed her.

"Molly, I just…"

"You don't get it, right?" She interrupted, before he could say the words.

But she didn't wait for him to finish, she went to the kitchen and served herself to some tea.

"No, honestly I don't , and I would like to know what's going on." He said, following her.

Molly shook her head again.

"Just forget it, okay? You are good at it."

"I am sorry?" Sherlock asked, getting angry now.

Molly finally faced him, her dishevelled hair twirling as she turned to look at him.

"It was your night to wake up and stay with Robyn." She said. "You know how she hasn't slept for the last weeks, she keeps waking up. I have to wake up regularly to feed her but in between meals you were supposed to go and see her. And what do you do? You just leave the house; no warn, no note, nothing."

"I was working on a case." He said.

"Yes, because a damn case is more important than your daughter."

She was looking him right in the eye, almost making him admit that. But Sherlock could understand she was looking for a fight, she wanted to rant on him. He would not fall for it. Before he could say anything he would regret he just put the mug down with a blunt movement and put on his coat, storming out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.

Molly picked up his mug and washed it, starting to cry. Crying was something she did regularly lately, whenever Sherlock was not in the house. She then threw her tea away and sat at a chair, head on her hands. Robyn started to cry again in the bedroom and she got up, cleaning the tears and letting go a sigh.

* * *

Sherlock considered taking a taxi, but he was too fazed and he needed to walk and get some air. The last weeks had been too illogical for him. He needed to understand things and he wasn't able to understand anything anymore. Molly, for once, had become more distant. She didn't worry about him anymore, about his meals, nor had she ever asked how he was doing. The baby was a new experience for him as well, but she hadn't even once acknowledged that nor the fact that he was trying hard. Very hard. Robyn had complicated times to sleep. She slept mostly during the day and kept crying at night. Sherlock had trouble focusing and for more than once had left the house, to be able to think. Without being allowed to play the violin thinking was difficult; he felt his fingers twitching sometimes, as if longing to feel the bow rubbing against the strings. But every time he tried to approach the violin, Molly would look at him with disdain, as if he was about to do something terrible. Then, since Robyn slept during the day, he couldn't play during the day. At night, as she cried, all Molly wanted was for her to sleep and stop making noise, so playing the violin was out of the question. All of it was driving Sherlock mad, and he was too confused. Still, despite his normal accesses of bad mood, he had managed to pretend everything was okay. He tried to keep his thoughts to himself, as John had told him they might hurt Molly. And that was what he got. Molly being completely distant but without explaining what was going on. He was tired of it all. Despite the fact that he had said Molly he was working on several cases, sometimes that was a lie. Probably the first lies he had told her in a very long time. The truth is that he needed space. To analyse his own mind, to put his ideas in place and, most important, to try to figure Molly out. All of the situation.

He turned a corner, bumping into someone. He apologised as the person left hurriedly, barely looking at him. He stopped for a while, remembering Molly's words. She wanted him nearby, but when he was nearby she would treat him as if she wanted him away. So, what should he do? Stay close or leave? Neither option seemed to please Molly. As he took a deep breath he decided to head home. Leaving the flat had probably been a bad idea. Now she would blame him of leaving her again.

* * *

Sherlock entered the living room, a little calmer, after the walk. Molly was nowhere to be seen and the house was silent. He hung his coat behind the door and paced quietly to their room. As he looked through the half-open door he saw Molly looking at herself on the mirror. She had the shirt lifted up to her stomach and was looking at herself from all possible angles. She put the shirt down with a fast movement as she caught hold of Sherlock's image in the mirror. He entered the room.

"I am sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Molly shook her head.

"It's okay." She said, but she seemed upset again. She came closer to Robyn's cradle, looking at her, sleeping peacefully.

Sherlock approached her, touching her arm. She jerked at the feeling of his hand on her skin.

"I look awful." She said, after a moment of silence, stroking Robyn's curly hair.

Sherlock frowned. He did not understand.

"Sorry, I don't think I understand what you are saying."

Molly stepped away for a moment, avoiding facing him.

"Molly." Sherlock called. He felt like she was about to tell him all that had been going on in the last weeks and he would not let her go without opening up to him.

Molly stopped, looking at the mirror again. Sherlock looked at her reflection as well. Her hair fell to her shoulders, tied in a ponytail. She looked lovely.

"Me. I don't look…. I know it's normal, I just had a baby, but I look awful. Look at this." She said, raising her shirt again. "I have got some stretch marks on my skin. And my face looks all oily and my hair is damp and my eyes are swollen… I look so ugly."

Sherlock held her arm again, and stood very close to her, making her look into his eyes.

"I am pretty sure we aren't seeing the same Moly, then." He said, without looking away. "Your hair looks perfect, and there is nothing wrong with your skin. And your eyes are swollen, yes, but it's because you have been taking care of a baby. There is nothing wrong with that. And about this," He said, touching her stretch marks with the tips of his fingers. "They look like little rays of sun. And they are beautiful. You are beautiful. And I am not saying this just to cheer you up. It's just the truth. And I am sorry you feel like that about yourself. It's a pity you don't see yourself the way you really are."

And letting go of her he hesitated for a moment. He then left the room, closing the door behind him. Molly took another look at the mirror, unsure of what to believe. A few minutes later she left the bedroom and went to the living room. Sherlock was sitting on his chair, eyes closed, playing an imaginary violin. Molly picked his real one and placed it in his arms. He opened his eyes, unsure if she meant that he could play. But Molly nodded and he understood that that was her consent. He started playing, his rusty fingers adjusting as the notes flowed from the instrument. Molly sat on the floor next to him, enjoying the lullaby he was playing. Robyn slept in her bed and as Sherlock continued to play through the night she didn't wake up except to eat. They had finally found out why she wasn't sleeping. The sound of the violin had made her company throughout all of Molly's pregnancy. Robyn missed it.


	34. Chapter 34

What a long wait! :) I have finished another chapter, and I hope the wait was worth it. I intend to keep this going more often now as soon as I get home from vacations. I'm going to visit my homeland. Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter and apologies for such a long wait.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the living room, going through some papers. He had been out of cases for a while, so he was searching in the newspaper for strange homicides, little things that might seem to make no sense or be misplaced. But all cases seemed to be as simple as the press presented them. He had received some e-mails on his website, but the only case that caught his attention required him to leave the country, and the look on Molly's face when he brought it up made it quite clear it was out of the question at the moment. Another Sherlock would have ignored it and go either way. This Sherlock shrugged and hoped another interesting case would come soon, knowing his life was a lot simpler when a satisfied Molly was around the house. He still threw his tantrums sometimes. He still had accesses of rage, startled by the boredom. But he had learnt to control them better. Robyn started to cry whenever he shouted, and that made things harder. So, there he was, on a Friday afternoon, sitting on the floor looking for a case, while Robyn was sitting on a blanket on the floor as well, playing with some baby puzzles. She was trying to place a star on a square shape. That wouldn't work. Sherlock got on his knees and helped her out. Robyn looked at him and smiled. He smirked briefly and sat again, going back to his papers.

Molly was out for the day. In a few weeks she would be back to work and she was using these last weeks free to take care of a few things. At first, it was quite difficult to see her out of the house; always so protective of Robyn, always so afraid something might happen to her. Sherlock wasn't sure if her attitude would have been different was he also a different kind of father. He wasn't incapable, he was just… clumsy. The man who could fight bandits and catalogue so many different types of tobacco ashes, had quite a lot of trouble feeding Robyn, or dressing her up. And because little Robyn was usually quiet he used to forget about her often. Changing diapers was a whole different matter, and whenever it was time to do it he seemed more lost than Robyn itself. But, as Robyn grew up and began to be able to sit and crawl around the house, and make a lot more noise, Molly had started to relax. It was still rare to see her leave the house without Robyn, but she had done it a couple of times. This had been one of them.

Robyn was ten months old, her hair fell on top of her shoulders when her curls were washed and brushed after a bath, and even though she couldn't talk nor walk yet, she was clever already. She listened and understood. She knew who pretty much everyone was; papa, mummy, John, uncle Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson. She pointed at things when she needed them. She cried when she didn't get what she wanted, she liked strawberry jam, but it was difficult to make her eat, in general. She had big, round eyes that looked at the world in an inquisitive way. She was smart, even if she didn't say a thing.

Sherlock's computer beeped, lighting up. He placed the newspapers by his side and picked the computer up, checking the messages. Robyn was playing with her toys again, clucking her tongue. She liked to do that.

It was Mycroft, telling him he needed his help on a case. Sherlock opened the file that came attached to the e-mail and looked at it, studying it for a while. Looking at all the pieces Mycroft was giving him, the case was as clear as water. Why did he always have to do the physical work for Mycroft was something he didn't understand. He replied to Mycroft, saying he accepted the case. Any excuse to get out of the house on such boring days was a good one, even if that meant obliging to his brother.

"I just wish he would send me more mind-stretching cases." Sherlock mumbled, loudly.

Robyn was now looking at him. 'God,' he thought, 'being a baby was so boring.' On the other hand, she had managed to fit all three pieces of the puzzle together. She seemed to be aware of her accomplishment, because she looked at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

"It's not such a big deal." he told her, in a jokingly. "It's just putting pieces together. Actually, if you look at the shape of the pieces, it's quite obvious."

He faced the papers again.

"Owious."

Sherlock looked up. Robyn was smiling.

"What did you say?"

Sherlock, still kneeling, approached Robyn, sitting on the blanket next to her.

"Robyn, what did you say?" he asked.

She clucked her tongue again.

"Owious." she repeated.

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. He might not care about the way Molly liked to dress Robyn, or what he had to feed her when Molly was away, but every ounce of new knowledge Robyn showed was usually greeted with much more enthusiasm by Sherlock than by Molly.

"Say it again." He asked.

Taking a moment to cluck her tongue again, Robyn repeated.

"Owious."

Sherlock laughed out loud, suddenly forgotten about the boredom, the lack of interesting cases. He looked at her again and took a deep breath. It was still hard for him to give it importance, to give it any kind of emotion. Looking around the flat, even though he knew he was all alone, he asked.

"Say Papa."

Robyn looked at him, her eyes wide open. Papa was an easy enough word, especially after having learned one so complicated as 'obvious,' Sherlock tried a few times, with no success. She repeated 'owious' a few times more, while playing, but that was all. He looked at her again and brushed her curly hair with a hand, as if congratulating her for her first word.

A few days later, while Molly was feeding Robyn and trying to make her say new words – she was now able to say 'mummy' and 'jam' – Sherlock put on his coat and scarf, ready to leave the apartment.

"Say goodbye to Papa." Molly urged.

Robyn raised her hand, as she usually did, gesturing a farewell.

"Papa." she repeated.

Molly laughed and clapped, cherishing a new word learnt. Sherlock stood in the hall, trying to supress a smile. He turned around quickly, before Molly could see the emotion spread on his face.

"See you later, Robyn." he said, already disappearing down the stairs.

He felt elated the whole day, even if he wouldn't admit that to himself. When he got home, Molly was sleeping already, and Robyn was on her cradle, quiet but with eyes wide open. She said 'Papa' again when she saw him. For the first time, he kissed her goodnight and waited for her to fall asleep.


	35. Chapter 35

Sherlock walked up the stairs, whistling the song he had been teaching Robyn play on the violin the night before. It had been Molly who had insisted that he taught their daughter the violin while Molly, in her turn, would teach her to play the piano. Sherlock, who had learnt to play at a quite young age himself, was sure Robyn would learn fast and well, as she did everything else. He would not let her touch his own violin, though. It had been a gift and although his resentment towards Mycroft was still present from time to time, Sherlock was quite possessive about his things and who could touch them. It was enough that Robyn read some of his books once in a while; the violin was a stretch. They had decided to rent one at first. Sherlock knew the owners of the musical instruments' store – he had helped them with a case a long time ago – so they had lent him a violin, free of charge. But, as Robyn's interest on the violin grew, Sherlock decided to surprise her. So, today, with no cases to solve and a free afternoon, he had taken the borrowed violin back and bought a new one. Perfect for Robyn's size, for her exquisite, though small, fingers.

He smiled, remembering the way the violin sat on its case, its perfectly tuned strings and shiny wood. She would love it. Since she had started to walk by herself she used to try and climb Molly's piano bench in order to play. The sounds were disarranged and out of tune, but she seemed to enjoy herself too much with the music, any music. Molly was a little bit more open-minded when it came to share things.

He opened the door and threw the coat away, making it land on the couch. Molly was leaning against the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes for dinner. It was going to be Shepherd's pie, Robyn's favourite. He looked around, searching for his daughter. Molly turned around as she felt his presence on the apartment.

"Hey," she said, looking behind and stopping the task she was doing. Her smile faded as she saw Sherlock alone and she looked around the flat. "Where's Robyn?"

Sherlock furrowed. How was he supposed to know?

"And where are the balloons? I thought you would have everything ready before you went to pick her up."

"Pick who up?" Sherlock asked, confused.

Molly's mouth fell open.

"Sherlock, please tell me you didn't forget to pick Robyn up from kindergarten and that you didn't forget that today is her birthday."

She could see straight away from the sudden anxious expression on his face that he had indeed forgotten.

"Oh, god, I can't believe it." she affirmed, angry now, picking up her coat and putting it on. "I ask you two simple things and you forget."

She turned to him before leaving the flat; Robyn was probably waiting for a long time now, but Molly had to say this now, or the anger would grow more and more as time went by.

"It's your own daughter's birthday and you forgot it. Not only her birthday but everything I asked you to bring home so she can have a small party, even if you insisted it was just the three of us. And, on top of it, you forgot to pick her up as well." she sighed. "Honestly, I know you can become a good father if you want to, Sherlock. And you know it as well, but you just don't seem to want to make an effort. I just… Robyn is such a wonderful kid. And smart. But even if you don't mind spending time with her teaching her the bloody periodical table, when it is time to sit and read her a kid's book, or just play a game, solve a simple puzzle, you can't bring yourself to do it. She asked me if I think she is boring the other day, you know. Because you told her she is boring. You told her that playing with dolls and cars is a waste of time. She's three years old, Sherlock. And you are giving her complexes about who she is and what she loves already. Allow her to be a child. I was going to say I hope you haven't forgot to wish her a Happy Birthday when you took her to school this morning, but I already know you did forget. And she was polite enough to remind you. Unlike you, she has a heart. Try to remember."

And with those harsh words Molly walked out of the apartment, without turning around.

Sherlock couldn't avoid but to feel hurt with her words. He did care about Robyn, and although Molly was right about some things, she was also being unfair about others. If he didn't care about Robyn, he would have not bought her the violin. Yes, he had forgotten her birthday, and he had forgotten to pick her up, but he was so excited about the violin, it could be excused, no? Apparently not. Molly didn't even notice the violin. Somehow, Sherlock didn't expect her to. Lately, she never seemed to appreciate what he did, the efforts he made. Caring, for her, was easy. Natural. For him was a struggle sometimes, but he had tried to change. It didn't always work, but he was trying. It seemed, sometimes, that she had stopped loving him. He put the thought away as fast as it took hold of his mind. He did not care that Molly loved him. Actually, it was for the best if she didn't.

He took a deep breath and put Robyn's violin away, picking up his own and started to play. He needed to think. An apology to Molly and Robyn would not be enough, so he would have to work on a strategy. Maybe they could go to a theme park. Disneyland seemed like a good place, or so he had heard. And it was something he could afford. He would be bored to death, but Molly and Robyn would have the time of their lives. Being a father was not an easy thing and he had certainly never thought it could change him all this much, make him plan a trip to Disneyland as an apology. This, he thought, was what Molly failed to see sometimes. His effort, his caring. That he was, indeed, trying.

He heard his phone ringing and he put the violin down, annoyed by the interruption. He saw the name on the screen before he answered the call. Molly.

"Hello?" he said, hoping she was not as angry as before.

"Sherlock, Robyn isn't here. Her responsible said someone came to pick her up, that you called her allowing it."

Sherlock's heart started to pace fast.

"I didn't."

He could almost see Molly flinching on the other side, the hope of that information being true shattered with his words.

"Oh my god."

That was all he heard before the call was cut off. He didn't wait for Molly to call again. He put on his coat and left down the stairs, calling Lestrade on the way out.


	36. Chapter 36

When Sherlock got to the kindergarten – he had run all the way there because getting a cab would be a waste of time and, mostly, because he couldn't bear the thought of stopping – a big commotion had already started. Lestrade was next to Molly, holding her and trying to calm her down. She was sobbing against him, in an obvious effort to stop, to no avail. Police officers walked in and out of the building, and Agent Donovan was questioning people already.

Molly raised her head when Lestrade called Sherlock's name. Sherlock was bathed in sweat, his clothes a mess, and he was panting. He stopped in front of Molly, catching his breath, but he did not turn to her.

"What do you have?" he asked.

Lestrade filled him in on what was going on. They had questioned all the staff from the kindergarten that was still there and they had called the parents from Robyn's class. No one seemed to know anything about her wanderings. The only one who seemed able to help was the responsible for Robyn, who had received the call in the morning and a signed fax with the authorization, and had delivered Robyn when classes were over. It had been a woman who had picked her up. Short, light brown hair, not too tall. They wanted to take Robyn's responsible to Scotland Yard to build a facial fit picture but he had decided to wait for Sherlock to arrive.

Sherlock heard it and nodded. He couldn't face Molly, he just couldn't. It was heart-breaking. Lestrade held Molly's hand and asked Sherlock:

"Did you run all the way here?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He paced away and grabbed his magnifying glass. It was time to quiet his heart down and leave the father role behind. They were dealing with a criminal, a kidnapper and he, Sherlock Holmes, would have to rise to the occasion. He would be again the consulting detective, and he was his own client.

He scrutinized the entry, taking careful steps. There were too many footsteps to recognise but he approached Robyn's responsible, asking her details of the way Robyn and the strange woman had taken. The responsible – she was not yet thirty – was quick and concise, just the way he liked and needed. Sherlock knew how lucky he was Lestrade was his friend; otherwise he would have to wait at least twenty four hours for the search to begin. There were police officers with Robyn's picture all around London, searching for her. And he was here, looking for clues without really knowing where to start. He found traces of thread, clothes' fabric and different types of dirt on the ground. He picked it all up carefully, and watched as Donovan left with the kindergarten's responsible, telling him they would let him know whenever they had the facial fit ready. Sherlock nodded and Agent Donovan paced away. She was concerned. Sherlock did not deserve this, no matter how much she hated him sometimes.

Sherlock looked around once more, wondering why on earth Robyn had accepted to go with someone she didn't know, and realising straight away that his daughter would never do that. Molly was always warning her about strangers, so it had to be someone they knew. Inside the classroom he checked the paper file where they kept all of Robyn's drawings. They were not many, and they showed that, when it came to drawing, Robyn was certainly not a prodigy. There was one with today's date and he took a closer look at it. There was him, Molly and Robyn and there were balloons on the ceiling and a cake. Robyn was playing a violin and coming out of Sherlock's mouth inside a speech bubble was a word, scribbled in what Sherlock deduced was her scruffy handwriting. Sherlock didn't know she could write. And he doubted Molly did. The word was 'love.' He wondered why he was the only one saying it in Robyn's drawing. He folded the paper and put it inside his pocket, leaving the room. There was nothing of interest there.

'Think!' he said to himself. Who would take Robyn with them? Who, from the people Robyn knew, would have taken her away and why? The forged signature and call were suspicious, so that was not just a prank. That was something much more serious and Sherlock was afraid now that more than Robyn's life was at stake. He paced outside the building and headed towards Molly, who was now a bit calmer, talking to Lestrade.

"We have to go to St. Bart's." Sherlock said, looking her for the first time since he had gotten there.

"What? Your daughter…"

"I have to analyse this." he said, before she could continue, showing her the samples he had collected. "She needs us operative right now, Molly. Crying isn't going to make us find her faster."

Molly's jaw twitched again, but she held the cry. She nodded and Lestrade let go of her hand and signalled Sherlock to follow him. They would get to St. Bart's a lot quicker on a police car.

Molly opened the doors of the morgue and Sherlock followed. He sat at the microscope and started with the dirt samples, trying to find a match to all of them, trying to give them a place. Molly sat down as well, arms folded across her chest. She spoke.

"Do you even care for her?" she asked.

Sherlock raised his eyes from the microscope and her eyes locked on his. He saw anger and hurt as they welled up. He felt a lump on his throat and, for the first time in so long, the urge to cry took over him as well. Somehow, Robyn's kidnapping was about him. He sensed it, he knew it. He fought the tears back with a blink.

"I am not sure why you are asking me that." he answered. Of course he knew why, but Molly didn't talk to him as much as before and he wanted to know how she felt. He was tired of trying to guess.

"Sometimes it feels… When I had Robyn, I thought you were going to change, that you were going to care more. Not for me, just for her. I thought it would change you. It sort of did, for a while. When she came back home from the hospital you seemed… excited. But then it all went back to what it used to be. And you think Robyn is just a baby, that she doesn't care, but she does. She is kind, you know. And she forgives all your ramblings and bad moods, but I know that she is also afraid of you sometimes." She paused, sensing the way the conversation was slipping from her, from what she really wanted to say. "And tonight, I just can't understand how you can be so… calm. So rational. I am here trying my best not to cry my eyes out and desperate because there is nothing I can do to find out where she is, and you are just sitting there, making decisions. And it makes me wonder if you actually care, or if we are just a burden that you had to carry because you think it is your duty to do it."

She had started to cry again. Sherlock got up and got closer. He swallowed the lump on his throat. He held her arm in his hand, clutching at the white shirt.

"You are not a burden." He said. "None of you. And I am sorry if I am ravenous sometimes and if I lose control, or if I don't act towards Robyn as a father should, if I forget sometimes that she is just a child. But I do care about her. I am sorry I am so bad at showing it."

Molly waited for him to continue but he didn't. She tried to ignore the fact that he had not included her in his caring.

"We are going to find her. I promise." He said.

Molly nodded. She believed him and that was enough for now.

Sherlock's phone rang and he answered Lestrade's call.

"Yes, do you have anything?"

Sherlock's face turned white as he heard the inspector speaking and he turned off the phone just a few minutes after, staring straight at Molly.

"What is it?" she asked, holding his arm to restore her balance.

"They have finished the facial fit." Sherlock said, clenching his jaw. "It was Mary. Mary took Robyn."


	37. Chapter 37

Molly clutched his arm with more strength and Sherlock held her arms with both his hands, steadying her. He needed to think. The clues he had picked up at the school were now useless. Why would Mary pick Robyn up without warning? Why the forged e-mail and call? If there was something Sherlock hated were things that made no sense. He was usually able to provide them the necessary sense but not in this case. He looked at Molly one last time and she nodded, trying, as best as a desperate mother can, to recover and be helpful. Sherlock let go of her and dialled a number. He knew John was out of town, to visit his sister and he had taken his son with him. Mary had stayed because her relationship with Harry was tense and also because she had work to do. Sherlock had talked to John two days ago, before he had left, when he showed up at the flat, like he did from time to time. The phone didn't ring. It was off. Sherlock stopped and looked inside his mind for a clue, something he might have overseen, but there was nothing there.

"John's phone is turned off." He informed Molly.

She looked at him and he saw hope, the face she usually made when she was expecting him to solve a crime. She was relying on him and he had promised her. He looked at his phone again. He needed advice and a favour from someone cleverer than him. He looked at the last of the three numbers on his address book, the one he called less and he pressed the button. After just a few rings his brother picked up. He didn't waste time with small talk.

"Robyn is gone. Someone forged a signature and a call and it was Mary Morstan who picked her up at school. We need to find her."

He waited for a sound on the other sign of the line.

"The call and fax where delivered to her kindergarten, for sure?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock confirmed the information. "I am on to it. Did you try to call John?"

"Yes. The phone is off. Do you think you can have access to the calls made from Mary's phone? It was a man's voice, pretending to be me, but it may have been made from her phone, nevertheless."

"I have given an order to check that already." Mycroft informed. "I will let you know as soon as I have news." And without further talk he hung up. Sherlock could hear on his cold voice the concern, even if Mycroft tried to hide it.

In his office Mycroft gave all the orders of what had to be made and got up, leaving the door open as he left the building.

Sherlock put the phone back inside his pocket and grabbed Molly's hand, interlacing his fingers on hers. She felt his hand cold and sweaty and she held it tight.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I can't just stay here." He admitted. "There must be something we can do. I am going to John's apartment; maybe we can find any clue there."

"But it doesn't make sense." Molly said, pulling his hand and making him stop. He looked at her. "Why would she do this?"

"I don't think she _did_ it." Sherlock said. "I think someone might have made her do it." He let go of her hand and looked at her, ready to explain, the same expression he had when he was trying to make other people understand his deductions. And he was. "If someone wanted to get to Robyn, how would they do it? In the kindergarten they wouldn't let her go with anyone unless there was a specific order, which was the case. The fax was a very good fake, as for the call… voices change on the phone. But to get Robyn out of there, now that would be more complicated, because Robyn would know and tell the responsible if it was a stranger. So they needed someone that Robyn knew, that she trusted and with whom she would go without question."

"So, you are saying someone threatened Mary to go and pick Robyn at the kindergarten."

Sherlock nodded.

"And Mary would go?"

"Maybe she didn't have a choice."

Molly's eyes welled up with the implication.

"Why would someone do this, Sherlock? Why would someone want to hurt Robyn?"

"I don't think they want to hurt Robyn; I think they only want to get to me."

And without adding anything else Sherlock paced away from the room. Still feeling the touch of Molly's hand in his, Sherlock remembered the wise words of caution his brother had told him such a long time ago. He had indeed put them all in danger.

Molly walked out of the hospital, looking at both sides. Sherlock had disappeared. She sighed raised a hand to make a taxi stop.

"Scotland Yard, please." She instructed the driver. She was scared, but she trusted Sherlock and now they had Mycroft on their side. Still, until they found Robyn, the weight on her chest would not subside, nor would her incapacity to do anything and the feeling of helplessness.

Lestrade came closer as soon as she arrived at the Police Station.

"Are you alone? Where's Sherlock?"

She shook her head.

"He just disappeared. He was headed to John's place."

"Why didn't he call? How is he going to get in?"

"How he always gets in." she answered. "He knows where the spare key is."

"Do you want me to take you home?" Lestrade asked.

She shook her head again.

"I can't go back to the apartment right now. I don't know what do, I just wish there was something I could do, but I don't want to get in anyone's way."

"We're checking the location where the fax was sent from. It's here in central London. Donovan headed there just now. We have our officers spread around town, with her picture. Someone must have seen something."

That as the hope Molly was clinging on to. And it was all she could do.

Sherlock moved the vase a few inches, retrieving the spare key from underneath it. They had never changed the place. He opened the door, carefully, trying not to make noise. After checking on every division he realised he was alone, just as he suspected. The flat was immaculately clean. The clothes were drying on the spare room. The bread had been bought that morning, and Mary had taken a shower. But something was different when Sherlock got to the backdoor. The lock had been forced and the mat was wrinkled, marked with two big footprints. Too big to be Mary's. Sherlock kneeled down, smelling it.

The earth left by the shoes. That was not John's size, and that was not an earth you would usually find on their backyard. He scrapped bits, to analyse them later. He shouldn't have left Molly behind but he deduced she would go to Scotland Yard and she would be better there. He didn't know he if was being observed to any extent and the far away she was from him, the better. He came outside, to the small porch and picked Mary's purse from the floor. It had been abandoned there. The clues showed his assumptions where correct. Someone had taken Mary away. There were no other clues in the house so he left through the back, looking attentively at the ground. The footprints got lost with others, so no clue there. On the main road he took a cab and headed to Scotland Yard as well. He needed to know if they had made progress and he definitely needed to pick Molly up. She was his access to the hospital.

He walked out of the cab and entered the Police station. Molly was sitting on a chair, drinking tea and Lestrade was making calls. Before Sherlock could say anything his phone rang. It was Mycroft.

"Mycroft?" he said. Molly heard him and got up.

"Does the name Alfred Wisconsin ring a bell?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock could hear the sound of cars and people on the other side of the line.

Sherlock thought for a second, trying to give the name a meaning.

"Yes, drug dealer. Murdered a costumer making it look like suicide. I helped sentence him."

"Yes, I thought the same." Mycroft affirmed. "He has escaped prison last week. And apparently has been looking for you."

"How do you know that?"

"Your most dear Homeless Network. They said he has been asking trivial questions about you and your family and friends." The word family sounded strange to him. "No one seems to know his whereabouts, though. Received the last bit of information a few days ago and hasn't consulted with them ever since."

Sherlock took the information in. So, this was it. This was why. Just as he thought. But now, it wasn't just an assumption; he had a face and a name to look for. He thanked his brother who promised to keep in touch as soon as he had more information.

"I need to go to the hospital again." He told Molly.

"What did Mycroft want?"

"I'll explain on the way."

He updated her on the discovery and explained all he had seen at John's flat.

"Do you think that can lead us to him?" Molly asked, when they were already inside the hospital, Sherlock trying to find a match for the type of earth he had found on John's balcony.

"If this can't help I don't know what can." He then paused, without facing her. "I am sorry."

"What for?"

"If it wasn't for me, she wouldn't…"

Molly approached him and placed her hand on his arm. He didn't look at her.

"It's not your fault."

"Yes it is." His answer was dry, with no room to retort.

"No." she said. "It is not." And she paced away again, without knowing what else to say. He raised his eyes from the microscope as she sat across from him, looking at the door and clutching her own mobile phone, waiting for it to ring with good news and sending the tears away when they appeared.

The computer beeped, when a match was found. Molly got up, and Sherlock looked at the screen.

"This is still found in London." Molly noted.

Sherlock nodded.

"There is something that is not found in the whole of London, though." He said. He pointed her his own research. Mud, gravel. And something else. Vegetation. A very specific sort of vegetation. "I know exactly where he is." He said.

Molly saw his expression change, between determination and anger. Sherlock grabbed her hand for the second time that day and picked up his phone with the other hand, giving Molly no chance to slow down. Not that she would. She heard him explain Lestrade the place where he should find Mary, Robyn and the kidnapper and she recognised it as well. But that didn't make anything clearer.


	38. Chapter 38

Inspector Lestrade drove the car with Agent Donovan by his side. Molly and Sherlock were on the back seat. He could see from the rear view mirror their hands interlaced, but none of them looked at the other. Sherlock was silent now, after explaining the fruits of his own research. From the officers on the street there were no news; no one seemed to have seen neither Robyn nor Mary. More cars followed them, filled with armed officers, and ready to take down a criminal. They would have to take caution; two lives were in danger and any step outside the lines could be fatal. There had been no call from the kidnapper, making his intentions unknown so far, and the evening was imposing its darkness bit by bit. Agent Donovan was talking on the phone again but Lestrade wasn't paying attention. He was focused on the road, hands on the wheel.

They could see the house in the distance but something was off. They were not alone. Black jeeps were parked outside the house and all around it. And not just any sort of jeeps. Police forces. Lestrade hit the break and got off the car, followed straight away by Sherlock and Molly. The door of the house was opened and there was a lot of noise. Molly tightened her grip on Sherlock's hand and he looked at her, to reassure her. That had been the same house Molly had been hit on the head. The same house where both of them, a long time ago and before Robyn was even born, had investigated a crime together. As much as Molly replayed the case inside her head she could not know if this was a coincidence of something much more intricate. Sherlock had refused to explain anything. Then, while she paced fast and her mind raced she saw Mary being brought outside the house by a police officer. Right behind her followed a man, handcuffed and bruised. Sherlock pulled her with him.

"What happened?" he demanded to know.

The first officer looked at him, as he and Molly approached Mary.

"Mary, are you okay?" Molly asked. They were now sitting Mary on the back of an ambulance and were gave her water. There was still a lot of noise inside and outside the house. "Where's Robyn?"

Mary looked at her. She was tired, beaten up and crying silently. Molly held her, a queasy feeling taking over her.

"Robyn's okay." Was all Mary was able to say. It would take too much effort to tell the story, strength she lacked right now.

Molly sighed with relief and looked around, following Sherlock's gaze. Coming from inside the house, with the same imposing pose he used to hold, was Mycroft. In his arms, was Robyn.

Molly and Sherlock sprinted towards the house at once.

"Oh my god!"

Molly took Robyn from Mycroft's arms and the little girl held her mum tight, crying now. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who smiled faintly and then turned to Robyn, waiting for his turn. Mycroft observed his brother's reaction, pensive. Sherlock touched Robyn's back and made her face him.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, the tears still falling down her face, her mouth in an unhappy arch.

"How did you find her?" he asked Mycroft.

"I didn't." his brother said. "She found me."

Molly looked at Mycroft as well and he pointed in the direction of Mary. They all headed that way, Molly paying no attention to both men now, holding Robyn again, afraid they would take her away. Her heart was beating fast but the nightmare was over. Someone handed her water and Robyn drank, thankful, but still scared. Her face was dirty and so were her clothes. Her hair was a big curly mess. Molly's big curly mess. She kissed her daughter.

"I love you." she told her, the same way she always did before putting her to sleep. She was so relieved Robyn was there so she could to tell her those words again and again and again.

Mary was recovering her colours slowly now and Molly sat next to her, and held her hand. Mary apologised and she shook her head. It was okay now.

In the meantime, Sherlock was listening to Mycroft.

"Apparently she was able to untie herself when the kidnapper left the house for a few hours. From what we gathered he went to pick some things, as he was using the house as his own hideout. He has been here since he evaded prison, from what I could see. I still don't know all of the facts – we will have to wait for Mary to be ready to narrate them – but Robyn called me."

Sherlock frowned.

"She called you?"

"Yes. From what she said she managed to untie the ropes who were keeping her captive and she used the house's phone. She told me all she had seen on the way here. Houses, buildings, stores… everything. I was able to trace her steps and to call the police forces I had available. She then removed Mary's ropes as well and both of them ran to the woods behind the house. Or at least that's what I could deduce of it all. We found them there, hiding. When the kidnapper arrived we were able to surround him and get him."

Sherlock thought of it for a moment and Molly was looking at him now, listening attentively. Mary nodded, confirming Mycroft's suspicion. Sherlock's mouth was a straight line, as his gaze stopped upon the man. Alfred Wisconsin. He was going to pay for what he had done. He started to pace in his direction but Mycroft stopped him.

"Not now." His gaze focused on Molly and Robyn. "Let Lestrade take care of him for now. Tomorrow. You can listen to him tomorrow."

His brother would have the last word and Sherlock knew it. There was no use in interrogating the man now, anyway. He would refuse to talk and Sherlock would just lose his temper. He nodded, accepting Mycroft's order. He looked at Robyn and Molly, still holding each other. Robyn's eyes were now focusing on him. He looked at her and extended his hands. Robyn didn't need anything else. She climbed onto his arms with Molly's help and held him tight, crying again. She had been very brave. And she was scared.

"It's okay." Sherlock said, rubbing his hand against her light-brown hair, the messy curls resembling his own. "It's alright, it's all fine. We'll be okay."

He rocked her for a while, while Molly grabbed her hand and Robyn fell asleep like that, too tired. Sherlock hadn't held her in such a long time – since she had started to walk – but it felt just right. The idea of not being able to protect her at any time was going to hunt him forever. But right now Robyn was okay. Mary was also okay. And he and Molly would be fine as well.

The police was getting things ready to leave the house, and inspector Lestrade came talk to Sherlock and see Robyn before leaving as well. Mycroft had a car ready to take all of them home. John, who had been finally contacted and summoned, had met them as fast as possible and taken Mary home. Mary had explained a little of what had happened, but the entire story would have to be repeated the next day at Scotland Yard. Robyn was still fast asleep. Sherlock placed her in Molly's arms and helped them get into the car. He stood in front of his brother before getting in himself.

"Thank you." he said. And he really meant it this time. The level of gratitude towards his brother could not be measured. It felt strange, but it also felt right.

Mycroft shook his head, smiling.

"It was the least I could do. I am her uncle, after all."

"Why did she call you? I mean, how did she know your number?"

Mycroft smiled again.

"She calls me regularly, Sherlock. At least twice a week since she was two and could hold a proper speech and recognise which numbers to press to reach my mobile. She likes talking to me apparently, and to be honest, I like talking to her too. And as she told me, she was able to untie those knots because you taught her. So, well done, you are not such a disgrace as a father, after all." Mycroft said it as a joke, not because he meant to hurt Sherlock in any way, but because he had always acknowledged his effort.

Sherlock smiled, hoping he was right. He felt a lump on his throat, of pride for his daughter, of gratitude for his brother and of relief. Finally, he let himself relax and feel. He clenched his jaws to hold the tears.

"And you came here yourself?" he inquired. He needed some distraction from his own thoughts and feelings right now. "In spite of your abomination towards legwork?"

Mycroft laughed with sincerity.

"A man has got to do what a man has got to do." he answered. "Robyn is worth all the legwork in the world. All the small talk worth of phone conversations we have. She is even worth sharing a cake with and ruin one's diet, go figure."

He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and applied some pressure. Then, without another word he paced away, leaving a trace of dust as his car drove into the night. Sherlock entered the car he had been assigned and told the driver the address. Molly was watching Robyn closely. And, without really knowing why, Sherlock felt for the third time on that day the urge to hold her hand. And so he did.


	39. Chapter 39

Molly opened the door, allowing Sherlock to get in and up the stairs, carrying a sleepy Robyn in his arms. The car drive had been soothing for all of them, though Molly could still feel her legs weak, now the adrenalin was gone. A good rest was all she wanted. But right now, Robyn needed to be taken care of. She was all dirty, her clothes a mess and, as hard as it would be to wake her up, she really needed a bath before getting back to sleep.

Molly directed Sherlock to the bathroom and woke Robyn up gently. Robyn rubbed her eyes, having trouble to focus on her mother right in front of her. Sherlock watched her as she woke up, slowly. She smiled at last. Molly put the warm water running and removed Robyn's clothes, trying to cheer her up. Sherlock left them both alone, closing the door after leaving. He called Lestrade, making sure the interrogation in the morning would be in his presence and Lestrade assured it. He hang up and put the kettle on, just as Molly came out of the bathroom, a smiley Robyn talking to her in whispers. Robyn was a brave kid and Sherlock was proud of her. He kissed her on the cheek before she left with Molly to her own room, to sleep at last.

The day outside had grown darker, a crescent moon in the sky. Molly came downstairs, brushing her hair with the fingers, a weary look on her face.

"Sit down." Sherlock said, pointing at the sofa. She looked at the table right in front of it. Sherlock had made not only tea but also a few toasts. Molly smiled. She was starving, something she hadn't notice until now. She sat down and Sherlock followed, picking a toast himself, and eating it. It was probably the first time Molly remembered him making anything to eat at all. She smiled at him.

"Thank you." She said.

He didn't say anything. He nodded and smiled as well. They ate in silence for a while.

Molly's hair fell over her shoulders, a little longer than Sherlock remembered, even though he saw her everyday. It was funny how he was able to observe tiny details but realised now he hadn't notice Molly in a while. They were sharing a life together for three years and still, he hadn't taken a moment to look at her and appreciate her. The revelation hit him with a renewed strength and he blinked, looking outside for a moment, just to gaze at her again. She ate now, looking at the window, unaware of his eyes on her. Sherlock looked away once more, ashamed of his attitude, trying to focus on something else.

"Are you okay?" he asked her, after a while.

She turned to him. She picked the third toast she ate that night and answered before starting to eat.

"Yes. I think I am. A bit shaken yet, but it's going to be okay. Robyn's with us." She looked at him, finding his green eyes. "Thank you for finding her."

"I didn't find her. Not really. She found Mycroft first."

"Still, you knew where she was. You looked for her."

"She's my daughter." Sherlock said.

Molly nodded.

"Yes. She is."

She took a sip of the tea and Sherlock furrowed, understanding what was implied in her simple words. Was he such an uninterested father? It was true he had trouble dealing with Robyn once in a while – especially when she started to cry out of the blue – but he had tried, hadn't he? Yes, he had. Enough? No, maybe not. Maybe Molly was right. He hadn't been much of a father. And Molly, well, Molly hadn't gone out on a date for three years. Sherlock wondered if he had something to do with it. He had never said she couldn't go out with other people, nor had he the right to. He felt a lump on his throat. What if she started to go out with other people? That had been something Sherlock had paid no attention to, as if having Molly around was just something taken for granted. If she found someone now she would leave the flat, she might even take Robyn with her. He got up, disturbed by the thought. Why on earth was he thinking about all this now? Robyn had just been kidnapped and now these thoughts were creeping in out of nowhere.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

She was afraid she had said something wrong. Sometimes it was hard, even in situations like this, where she should just be thankful Robyn was safe and sound, not to show displeasure about Sherlock's general attitudes towards Robyn. Molly knew it wasn't exactly his fault, but sometimes she couldn't help but blame him. She felt bad for what she had said, even if she didn't mean to hurt him. They were both still pretty shaken with all that had happened.

"I am sorry." She got up.

"You have nothing to apologise for." Sherlock said. But he was still facing the wall.

Molly came closer and held his wrist in her hand.

"Yes I do. I know I've been a bit tough on you later but it's not been easy to me either."

The hurt from the last months was now sinking in, showing up out of nowhere. The funny thing was that Molly was just waiting for any reason to turn against Sherlock and the fact that he had forgotten to pick up Robyn had been just the right excuse. It had turned out to become something Molly could have never wished for, and that made her guilty. But, with Robyn turning three years old, this had not been the life Molly had expected for all of them. She could not make Sherlock love her but she hoped he would, with time, love Robyn, and it had taken their daughter being abducted for Sherlock to show a little concern. The thoughts were all scrambled in her head.

"I always thought I could change you, with time, you know? That somehow, I could shape you into being someone you are not. Someone different."

"Molly, we really don't have to do this now."

Somehow, she was now talking about something she hadn't had the courage to talk about before. Maybe it was because of the anxiety, the weariness, the fear she had felt, but she knew now there was nothing to lose, nor win. She ought to have talked to him before, but since the words had always gotten stuck in her throat, tonight seemed as good as any other day.

"Yes we do." Molly said. "I've waited for too long, so please listen." She took a deep breath. "I know you can't love me. I know I have always been expecting you to and maybe because of that I have been hurting myself. I have thought about it and it isn't your fault, it never was. I am not a victim, Sherlock. I fell in love with you and I continued to love you at my own risk. You didn't do anything to get me stuck on you, quite the opposite, but I just couldn't stop liking you the way I do. I didn't intend to have Robyn but I am glad I did, because she is the most amazing thing that ever happened to us. The problem is that I am always waiting for you to make a mistake, to take an errand step, and it's just not right. Like I said, I can't shape you, and I can't make you turn into someone completely different, because I can't change who I am either and I wouldn't like to have someone trying to mould me to their likes. And I feel bad because I have put so much pressure on you because of Robyn… I love her so much and it's so easy for me to deal with her, that I forget that it doesn't have to be easy for you. But, you have tried, and I know your methods are quite unorthodox but, as we saw tonight, they actually work. I admit I would like to see you give more love to her, at least show it to her, but that's not the way you do things. You teach her, you give her your knowledge and I am grateful for that, that you actually take your time to teach her things. And I am sorry that I have been unfair to you, waiting for you to make a mistake, just because the idea of life with you I had in my mind didn't come true. I am sorry for that. And I want you to know I accept you the way you are. We are friends, and you have always helped me, and that's enough for me. I just wanted you to know that. And I will make an extra effort to understand you, to remember that the things that I do easily, you don't. That your way of showing affection is quite different from mine. That we are not the same, nor do we have to be. I promise."

Her throat was dry and she looked down. Sherlock felt her fingers locking his wrist and he paced towards her, getting closer. He held her face with his hand, making her look at him and leaned forward. They were so close he could see the freckles on her skin and all the shades in her beautiful brown eyes.

Tiny steps came down the stairs, hurried.

"Mummy?"

Sherlock turned away, licking his lips and Molly let go of his wrist.

"What is it, baby?"

Robyn was crying, clutching at the Teddy Bear that once was Molly's.

"I can't sleep anymore. I had a nightmare."

Molly had kneeled down next to her. She picked her up and looked at Sherlock, her heart still beating fast inside her chest.

"Do you want to play to her?"

Sherlock nodded. Molly carried Robyn up the stairs again and Sherlock picked up the violin, taking it with him. He played while Molly rocked Robyn in her arms and then placed her on her crib. He played a while longer, until they were sure she had fallen asleep. Molly went downstairs and got ready to sleep, and she heard the violin upstairs, a new melody being played, one of Sherlock's compositions. Exhausted, even as her mind raced, she fell asleep right away.

A hand tugged at her sleeve, pulling her close and she opened her eyes, feeling his scent. Sherlock was looking at her, lying by her side. Before she could talk he held her face again and this time he kissed her, no time wasted. She kissed back, the languid touch warming her up.

"I was thinking," he whispered, pulling away. "That maybe we could go to the beach tomorrow, in the afternoon. We could drive there, have a picnic. Robyn never had her birthday party."

Molly nodded, agreeing. By now she would have agreed with about anything. She was just so tired; she leaned on his arm and fell asleep.

Sherlock watched as her chest raised up and down, a happy smile on her face. It took him a long time to fall asleep, but when he finally did his mind was clear and rested, at last.


	40. Chapter 40

Molly closed her eyes harder as the rays of light entered the room and took a moment to adjust. The memories of the night before came slowly, bit by bit, immersing her in the same feeling she had fallen asleep to. For a moment, as she thought about it, she wasn't sure anymore what was real or what was a dream. She opened her eyes, one after the other and reached out. By her side the bed was empty but Sherlock's perfume still lingered on the sheets. She stretched her arms and then she remembered. He had kissed her. Hadn't he? She was wide awake now, trying to focus. He had kissed her. He had. She was almost sure of that. But, as it was, she was not _completely_ sure. Maybe it had only been a dream. She sat on the bed and took a deep breath, before getting up. She could hear some noise in the kitchen and she left the room, trying to compose the mess that was her hair.

Before she entered the kitchen she saw him. He had his back turned to her and was busy. Molly spotted Robyn, playing alone on the living room floor, building a house with Legos. None of them noticed Molly and she stood there for a little longer, appreciating the feeling it was to have them both in the house, safe and sound. To know that she could hug Robyn as much as she wanted. To know that everything was alright. She paced inside the kitchen and Sherlock looked at her.

"Good morning." He said.

He saw her approaching him carefully, and smiled. Robyn got up and ran towards her, clinging to her legs. That was all Molly needed, and she picked her daughter up.

Sherlock was making sandwiches and wrapping them up, putting them inside a basket.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked.

The feeling of closeness, the impression of the kiss was still there, but Sherlock made no move in her direction.

"It's for Robyn's birthday picnic!" he announced, grinning at Robyn. Robyn smiled back and Molly allowed her to go and play again. Robyn was quite methodical and didn't like to leave anything in half.

"Where did you get the basket?" Molly grabbed a piece of bread and the freshly made tea and poured some for herself.

"Mrs. Hudson had the basket. I went to the store to get some groceries on the way here, after leaving Scotland Yard."

He had woken up very early but inspector Lestrade had beaten him to the police station. There were going to be a lot of inquiries and Sherlock heard part of the facts, at least the ones Lestrade knew. It was quite an intricate story and Sherlock didn't want to talk about it. Not now. This was supposed to be a day to relax and enjoy each other's company. He owed Robyn that. Molly understood he didn't want to bring the subject in front of Robyn and got back to the picnic talk.

"And you are preparing it all by yourself?" Molly asked.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson made me a list of things I should buy, to be honest. I never made a picnic so I wasn't sure what to get. But I think I have it all covered. Oh," he said, turning to Robyn. "Robyn, show mum what Dad got you."

Robyn got up, exited now.

"Should I take my clothes off?" she asked.

"How else are you going to show it?" But Sherlock's tone was amicable, cheerful.

"Ah, obviously." Robyn said, laughing. She took off her dress, the dress Sherlock himself had helped her put on in the morning. He had also fixed her hair in a much disarranged ponytail.

Molly laughed at the sight, her hand in front of her mouth. Robyn was wearing a lovely bathing suit, red and white, just her size. She looked lovely.

"Papa said I can swim with this."

Molly nodded approvingly.

"Yes you can. With one of us by your side, of course."

Robyn smiled again and picked up the dress. Sherlock got closer to her and helped her out. He then kissed her on the forehead and Robyn went to the living room again, dancing.

"It's wonderful." Molly said, looking at him and touching his arm. "Thank you."

"It's okay." Sherlock affirmed. He didn't really know how to deal with thankfulness.

"I am almost done here, so if you want to take a shower and get dressed, we can leave after. Mycroft has lent me a car, so we can leave whenever you're ready."

Only now she had really noticed what he was wearing. Some shorts and a t-shirt, very casual. It was the first time Molly saw him dressed like that. And the sun outside the window was shining. A day at the beach, a picnic, all of it sounded promising. She placed the empty mug on the sink and went to the bathroom to take a shower and get dressed. She opted for a bikini as well, one she had had for a long time and had left the drawer not more than two or three times.

When Molly came back from the bedroom, all ready to go, Sherlock was sitting at his desk, going through some papers but he got up leaving them behind as soon as he saw her. He carried the picnic basket with him and closed the door behind Molly as she walked out of the flat taking Robyn with her. Molly smelled of shampoo and sunscreen and Sherlock felt at peace. Robyn was getting more excited by the minute and he couldn't help but laugh. To think that they might have lost her… he sent the thought away. It was going to be a good day and that's all he had to focus on.

The car ride took almost two hours, in which Molly and Robyn sang joyfully to the songs on the radio. There wasn't much traffic and Sherlock paid attention to the road, looking at Robyn through the rear view mirror once in a while. She was holding her Teddy Bear and by her side, lying on the seat was a bag with a bucket and a few plastic moulds so she could play in the sand, which Sherlock had found at the supermarket as well. It was the first time Robyn was going to see the sea for real.

The weather was still nice when they got out of the car, a lukewarm wind playing with their hair. Molly grabbed Robyn's hand and helped as Sherlock carried their things to the beach. There weren't a lot of people there and Sherlock was pleased with the location he had chosen. He placed the towels on the sand and Molly helped Robyn, applying some sunscreen on her as well. Robyn was still excited, pointing at the sea and it was hard to make her wait. She wanted to _feel_ the water. Molly laughed and walked with her to the waves, never letting go of her hand. But, at first, now that she was so close, Robyn was reticent. She put a little bit of her toe on the water and as a small wave came towards her she sprang back, running. Molly laughed out loud and grabbed her again, pulling her close. Then, slowly, Robyn let herself in the water, her feet first, then up to her knees. After less than fifteen minutes both she and Molly were siting by the shore, enjoying as the sea washed their feet and legs. Sherlock removed his shirt and observed them for a while. Robyn had gotten up and was now sprinkling Molly with water. She looked behind.

"Papa!" she shouted, skipping and spreading water all around her. "It's water, so much water!"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. He wasn't a big fan of the beach but Robyn seemed so happy. He observed as Molly got up and, bringing Robyn with her, returned to the towels.

"It's a bit cold." Robyn said, carrying sand on both hands and watching it escaping from her. "But I like it."

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Molly asked, trying to dry her own feet.

Robyn nodded and picked her bucket and the moulds.

"May I play with this now?" she asked.

"Of course you can. Stay close."

Molly observed as she sat next to them, ready to play. Molly sighed.

"This is very nice indeed." She said. "Thank you."

Sherlock smirked, looking at her. He couldn't tell if she remembered the kiss. She had fallen asleep right after, tired as she was. And he had no guts to bring the matter up, nor wasn't sure he wanted. But she looked beautiful right now. She had tied her hair in a braid and it fell over her shoulder, the sunlight making it shine brighter. She looked nice on a bikini too, and Sherlock looked away from her, focusing on something else.

"Would you like me to put you some sunscreen?" Molly asked.

His skin was as white as hers; he would get a sunburn if he wasn't careful.

"No, it's okay." Sherlock said.

Molly didn't insist. Sherlock lay down, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his skin.

He woke up with tiny arms tugging at his legs and Robyn calling him.

"Papa, I want to go to the water again!"

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. Molly was taking care of the picnic, placing a small towel on the sand and taking cups out of the basket. Robyn pulled his hand, trying to make him stand up.

"You better go with her now, before we eat. I am just seeing what you have here."

Sherlock stood up and grabbed Robyn, carrying her in his arms, and paced in the direction of the sea, not very enthusiastic with the thought of getting on the water. He put Robyn down but she complained.

"No, I want to go further but mummy said I can't go alone. You'll have to carry me."

Sherlock looked at her and agreed. It was her 'day on the beach birthday party' after all. He placed one foot on the water and flinched. That was cold. He took a deep breath and walked a bit further, slowly. Robyn was almost jumping in his arms, clapping and laughing. Some people turned around to look at them and smiled at her excitement. Sherlock had to go through with that now. By the time the water got to his chest, Robyn was already enjoying it as well. It was cold but he grabbed her firmly.

"You want to try and swim?" he asked.

"But I can't swim!" Robyn said.

"I know. I'll hold you."

And, to much of Robyn's happiness he placed her carefully on the water and held her by the belly, legs and back. He carried her like that for a while as she moved her arms, like she had seen on TV. Her hair was now soaked and Sherlock's body was getting used to the water's temperature. Not all was bad. He could see Molly looking at them, sitting on her towel.

"You have to move your legs as well." Sherlock told Robyn. "Don't be afraid, I'll hold you tight."

And Robyn did as he said. Mostly, she was sprinkling water all around, but she laughed hysterically now.

"I am swimming!"

Sherlock didn't want to burst her bubble and he laughed with her. When she grew tired he picked her up again and held her in his arms.

"I have an idea." He said. "Grab my neck."

He managed to place Robyn on his back and he swam to the shore with her clinging to him.

"Run, Papa. Run!" Robyn encouraged him and Sherlock ran, in circles and taking a lot longer than he would normally take to get to the towels. When he pretended to fall on her towel, Robyn couldn't stop laughing.

"Papa can swim mummy, and he taught me!"

Molly smiled.

"He did? Aren't you lucky?"

"Can you swim, mum?"

"No, honey, I have never learned."

"Well, maybe Papa can teach you just as he taught me."

Molly and Sherlock's eyes met.

"I could." He said.

"Okay, then." Molly agreed. "But for now, let's eat. And come here you cute little thing, I need to put some sunscreen on your skin again."

Robyn obeyed promptly.

"Are you sure you don't need some?" she asked Sherlock again.

"No, I am fine."

And he grabbed the drinks, starting to prepare their lunch.


	41. Chapter 41

Molly sat by the shore again, as Sherlock helped Robyn perfect her swimming technique. Basically, he was holding her and she was convinced she could swim. It was endearing. Molly looked behind at their things, to make sure they were still there and just then she felt herself being lift up. Robyn was now standing right at her feet and Sherlock was holding her in his arms.

"It's your time to learn how to swim, mummy!" Robyn shouted, clapping.

Sherlock smiled, as if showing her she had nothing to fear. But he was, when he wanted, a tricky one. He dived and as he did so, Molly had to dive as well. Sherlock pulled her up again right away, and he was laughing. God, she had never seen him laughing so much and she couldn't even be mad at him! She held him tight and he swam, moving his legs, carrying her with him.

They didn't make much of an improvement. Molly seemed less able to learn how to swim than Robyn itself, but Sherlock was patient and just as he had done to Robyn, he had carried her by her belly and legs, allowing her to stay on the surface of the water. The feeling was electrifying for Molly and she trusted him. He helped her get up and she grabbed his shoulder to keep steady. Robyn was next to them and grabbed Molly's hand.

When the sun began to set Molly wrapped up Robyn with her towel and covered herself as well. The wind was not so warm now, but she didn't want to miss the show. Seeing the sunset on the beach was a beautiful thing and she wanted Robyn to enjoy it. Sherlock was sitting by her side and seemed to appreciate it as well.

It was almost dark when they left the beach and Robyn was asleep already. She slept the whole trip home and woke up as they walked her up the stairs. Sherlock brought everything they had in the car to the apartment and, just like the night before, Molly took Robyn for a nice bath. Sherlock heard them talking about the day and how much they had liked it.

Robyn passed him and waved as Molly carried her to her room. There was a satisfaction on both her faces that Sherlock had never seen before.

He sat down for a bit, tired, and realised it had been a huge mistake to have declined the use of sunscreen. His skin was red and it hurt. He had been so stupid. But he wasn't upset, not really. He would have Molly laughing at him, though, and she had all the right to do that.

Molly paced down the stairs again, a weary look on her face. The day had been full and tiring to her as well but he could see her satisfied smile, her shiny eyes.

"She wants you to read to her." Molly said. She was used to his normal answer, the negation and before he could deny the request, she added. "You know how she likes when you read to her to sleep."

Sherlock nodded. Reading out loud seemed strange for him but Robyn always loved to hear a story. He got up and passed by Molly, without a word, but she held his hand before he could leave. He stopped there, looking at her, feeling her hand on his.

"Thank you." She said.

He nodded and froze as she took a step towards him and kissed him on the cheek. She turned around, ready to leave, but looked at him again.

"Did…" she looked at her own feet, embarrassed. But she had to know. "Did you kiss me last night? Or was I dreaming?"

Sherlock smirked and Molly looked up again, waiting for an answer.

"I was afraid you wouldn't remember it." He said.

"I don't really remember it that well." She whispered. And with a smile on her lips she let go of his hand and left, at last.

Sherlock thought about what her words implied and watched her disappear, supressing the will to follow right after her. But first, he had a story to read.

Robyn was waiting on her bed, awake. Sherlock put the crib's protection down and sat by her feet. She got up right away, sitting on his lap. In the rare occasions he read to her that was the way she liked to stay. She loved following his finger as he told the story and Sherlock allowed it this time as well. Robyn listened carefully to the short fairy tale. When Sherlock closed the book with a thud she was staring at him, almost star struck.

Sherlock kissed her forehead.

"Ready to sleep?" he asked.

Robyn nodded.

"I love you, Papa." She said.

And suddenly the realisation hit him. As Robyn's big, inquisitive eyes stared at him, a gaze of admiration she usually had reserved for him, he felt his throat close and something inside him changed. It was his heart. Suddenly, as irrational as it may seem, it felt too big to fit inside his chest. The feeling was overwhelming, the reminiscing of the last three years coming back to him, bit by bit. Robyn's first words, the first time she had walked, the way she used to call his name and ask him things, almost with a tone of reverence, taking his words for granted. The way she smiled sincerely and seemed to accept him no matter what, despite everyone else. Robyn was his own. She loved him. And she had told him so more than once, even if he had never told her back. Even as he had struggled with sentiment, she had never given up on him. Just like Molly. He fought back the tears, breathing deeply and held Robyn close, locking her in his arms.

"I love you too." He choked out. And then, remembering something he used to hear Molly say, he added. "To the moon and back."

The way Robyn grabbed his neck and didn't let go, said more than any word would. He tucked her in and she smiled, already dreamy, happy. Sherlock watched as she fell asleep. He made a promise to let her know she was loved by him as well, everyday. Somehow, he had become the man he had always fought against. And, to his amazement, it felt just right.

He paced down the stairs, his heart still racing and he opened the door of the bedroom. Molly was already lying down, sleeping. Sherlock sat by her side and shook her.

"Molly?" he called.

Molly got up, sitting as well, bewildered.

"What is it?" she asked, worried now. "Is everything okay with Robyn?"

"Yes, she's fine."

"What is it then?"

Sherlock held her hand in his and took a deep breath, remembering the promise he had made so long ago, and sure he had kept it.

"Molly Hopper," he asked. "Will you marry me?"

* * *

When I started writing this story in my head, it began with the end. I knew what I wanted to do and I knew where I wanted to get. I wasn't sure I would make it, though; it's easy to have a beginning and an ending to a story, but the middle is always a challenge. I am sure that if it wasn't for all of you, who have been following, reading and reviewing the story, therefore keeping my moral up, I would probably just have abandoned it as I do to other stories. So, because of that, I really want to thank you all for putting up with me and this cheesy novel until the end. I had lots of fun writing it and as a firm Sherlolly shipper I too had trouble making them go through such a rough time. Still, I think I have managed to reach my goal and finish tell my story. Once again, I wouldn't make it if it wasn't for you. Once again, thank you!

Now, this is not the final chapter. I will update the last chapter soon, though many of you may take this as the end of the story. As I will explain later, it will be your choice.

Writing makes me very happy and I surely liked this journey. (Yes, I sure have a thing for the dramatic.)


	42. The final chapter

**Warning: Here's the thing about this chapter you should know. It is, in a way, an extra chapter, an alternative ending. In order to get the whole of this story you do not have to read it; you may keep the last chapter as your ending. This chapter, however, has been re-written quite a few times in my head since the beginning of the story, because this is the beginning of another story I had planned, so it is my ending. Still, I am advising you: if you liked the other chapter as an ending, don't read this one. You have been warned. **

* * *

Sherlock woke up but kept his eyes closed, the sun spread over his eyelids. His body was sour, in pain and he had trouble to focus. His head hurt. He lay down for a while longer, allowing the sleep to subside entirely. He reached out, a hand searching through the sheets but he found nothing. Molly must have stood up already and the smell of fresh coffee came from the kitchen. Sherlock opened one eye and then the other and gazed at the ceiling, just above his head. It was a sunny day outside and the window was half-open, allowing the sound of cars and voices to get in. Everything felt and sounded loud. He felt the pounding inside his head and nausea took over him. He took a deep breath, fighting it. His body was answering to something but he wasn't sure what. He had a strange feeling on the tip of his stomach, as if some piece had been left out of a puzzle he couldn't yet uderstand. He sat on the bed, slowly, trying to make the dizziness go away and held the sheets for balance. Then, when he felt strong enough, he got up, and stood on his feet. He felt the nausea again, this time stronger and he ran to the bathroom, kneeling by the toilet, violently sick. He threw up, his body aching. He felt better. He had a hard time to recognise his face in the mirror, wondering what on earth had induced all that. At least now that his stomach was empty he felt relieved, the bad feeling gone. He brushed his teeth and washed his face and walked toward the kitchen. The kettle had just boiled but there was no one there. The living room was strangely silent. He poured himself some tea and sat on the couch. His mind was still a big blur but he knew everything would be okay. He needed to take a shower and put himself together. Maybe play some violin. He needed to go back to Scotland Yard. There were going to be inquiries again and he wanted to be there. He smiled, the memory of the night before taking hold of him, the satisfaction lodging on his chest.

Quick footsteps came down the stairs and Sherlock turned around, considering if he was feeling good enough to stand up again and kiss her. But, as he moved his head towards Molly, it was John who greeted him.

"Hey," the doctor said, smiling. "How are you feeling today? Better? Did you throw up? I am sure you did, considering all you drank. How's the hangover going?"

That was a whole lot of questions for such an early morning and Sherlock's head hurt too much. John's presence on the apartment was also a new factor of surprise. He visited once in a while but never so early in the morning.

"What are you doing here? " Sherlock asked. "Where's Molly?"

"Where's Molly, indeed." John said. He was busy, preparing a small working bag, where he was now keeping his stethoscope and some papers. "Hopefully still not mad at you. What you did last night wasn't exactly nice, Sherlock. Greg was furious, to be honest."

Sherlock placed his mug on the floor, the dizziness taking hold of him again.

"I'm sorry, what?"

John put his coat on and took a good look at Sherlock for the first time that morning. He could see the question was genuine.

"What, you don't remember?" and he explained. "You got drunk. Like, really drunk. You passed out and fell over some drinks and broke a whole lot of glasses. Luckily, the wedding was over, the last guests leaving aready. Molly insisted in bringing you here, though, making sure you would be alright even when I insisted I could take care of you. She wanted to take you home. You told her that you loved her on the way here, and I am not sure Greg heard or not, but either way he was still mad. They were supposed to leave for their honeymoon yesterday during the night and because of you they lost the flight. Molly called in the morning to inquire about you again, make sure you were okay, and I could hear Greg complaining."

Sherlock stared at John, a blank expression on his face. He didn't understand why he was saying that, why he was making it all up. Wedding? Molly and Lestrade? No. Where was Robyn?

Taking Sherlock's silence as a sign, John smiled and continued.

"I am sure he will forgive you, anyway, so you don't need to worry. And Molly, well, she knows you weren't quite yourself last night, and she always forgives you everything, so no problem there."

"But," Sherlock had managed to speak. "What about Robyn? Where is Robyn?"

"Sleeping upstairs." He answered. "Listen, I really need to go to work. Robin should wake up in a couple of hours, so please take him to the park? He could really use the fresh air."

"He?" Sherlock's head was twirling and he was finding it very hard to breath.

"Yes, Sherlock. He. My son. Are you sure you are okay?"

Sherlock looked away from John and gazed at the apartment. Around, the whole disposition of things was different. There was no piano, and his books were still scattered around the floor. There were pictures. Of John. Of Mary. Of John with a baby boy and others, following the boy's growth. There was a canvas with Mary and John's wedding picture just above the fireplace. Sherlock stared at John and saw the ring hanging from his neck. A small wedding ring, perfect to fit a woman's finger. There were pictures of Mary pregnant, but none of her with a baby. And the gears started to work. There had been a wedding. A birth. And then, bursting into his mind with the strength of a bullet, Sherlock remembered the funeral. The rain falling on John's suit without him noticing it, the way Sherlock had to walk around him, and make sure he took care of himself. How Mrs. Hudson, Molly and himself had taken care of the baby boy for a while, how John didn't want to face him. The nights without sleep, and the denial. The waking up and the acceptance as John understood Robin needed his father. John moving back to Baker Street definitely, and a boy, growing up with both of them. All of that came rushing in, with no warning, and the colour escaped from Sherlock's face. Then, to make it worse, there was Molly walking down the aisle and Lestrade waiting for her, an amazed look on his face. And the hurt, the aching on his chest and the loss that Sherlock felt and tried to dismiss to no avail, as they both said 'I do.'

A cry was heard from upstairs and John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Listen, I really have to go now. I made some cookies yesterday, Robin's favourite. I also put some clothes next to his bed; you only have to dress him up. Call me if you need anything, okay?" John picked up his bag and stopped before leaving the flat. "And don't worry. Molly is fine and I am sure she won't hold a grudge against you. It's not like you ruined her wedding or anything. I actually think she was amused with you. She said she left a few things at the morgue to be delivered to you while she's away. My guess is a new head. Don't put it on our fridge, though."

He smiled and left the flat at last, without looking back. Robin was silent again and Sherlock stared at the wall, unsure of how he felt. It seemed inconceivable that his mind had tricked him like that. That his mind had picked up little pieces of what had happened and had turned them into what seemed like real memories.

Robin cried again and called his name this time, knowing he would be there for him. Sherlock got up and fought the tears, trying to compose himself. He took a deep breath. The image of Molly looking at him on a darkened room was vivid and he knew now it was also real. She had been there the night before. She had put him to sleep. But the rest, he forced himself to accept it, had it all been a wonderful, wonderful dream. Strange, how Molly had still changed him. Strange, how you can love someone for so long without knowing it. Strange, how he missed what he had never had.

Molly Hopper, the one that counted.

The End

* * *

It was quite a difficult thing to write this chapter. I never thought it would feel like I was saying goodbye, but it surely felt. It's as if a bit of my heart has died with its end. This story is very dear to me, and now I am quite sad that it's over, even if I am relieved that I got it through until the end.

I hope you have enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Once again, to all of you who stood with me until this last chapter, Thank You!


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